BREAKERS  AND  GRANITE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NKW  YORK        BOSTON  •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


Breakers  and   Granite 


BY 


JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 

Author  of  "The  Tree  of  Life" 


lark 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1921 

A.U  right*  reserved 


Copyright,  1916,  1917,  1919 

BY    HOUGHTON-MH-FLIN    COMPANY 

Copyright,   1917,   1919 
BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

Copyright,   1919 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1919 
BY  HARCOURT,  BRACE,  AND  HOWB 

Copyright,   1916,   1917,   1919   and  1921 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published,  January,  1921 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY  FATHER  AND  MOTHER 

WHO  GAVE  TO  ME  ALL  THAT 

MADE  THESE  POEMS 

POSSIBLE 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  of  Poetry,  The 
New  Republic,  The  Poetry  Revieiu  of  America, 
The  Anglo-French  Review,  The  Little  Review,  The 
Craftsman,  The  Egoist,  and  Others,  for  their  per 
mission  to  reprint  some  of  these  poems. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  ARRIVAL i 

II    NEW  YORK 5 

III  MANHATTAN 8 

IV  SKYSCRAPERS 15 

V    NEW  YORK  SKETCHES:  — 

1.  OVERLOOKING  THE  HUDSON,  AUTUMN      .     .  I? 

2.  CENTRAL  PARK 19 

3.  BROADWAY'S  CANYON 20 

4.  THE  ALLEYWAYS 22 

5.  OLD  JEWISH  CEMETERY 24 

6.  LONGUE  VUE 25 

VI    IN  NEW  ENGLAND:  — 

1.  NEW  ENGLAND  SUNSET 26 

2.  NEW   ENGLAND  WINTER 3<D 

3.  BOSTON  —  THE    EMPTY   HOUSE 32 

4.  CLIPPER-SHIPS 35 

VII    CHICAGO  :  — 

1.  LAKE  SHORE  AT  N-IGHT 42 

2.  THE  BUILDING  OF  CHICAGO 44 

VIII    DOWN  THE  MISSISSIPPI:  — 

X.    EMBARKATION 49 

2.   HEAT 51 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

3.  FULL  MOON 52 

4.  THE  MOON'S  ORCHESTRA 53 

5.  THE  STEVEDORES 55 

6.  NIGHT  LANDING 56 

7.  THE    SILENCE 57 

IX    THE  OLD  SOUTH:  — 

1.  THE  OLD  SOUTH 58 

2.  THE  GREAT  RIVER 64 

3.  GETTYSBURG 79 

4.  THE    PASSING   OF   THE   SOUTH 90 

X    THE  FAR  WEST:  — 

1.  THE  GRAND  CANYON   OF  THE  COLORADO     .       -95 

2.  ARIZONA   POEMS    (6   PARTS) IOO 

3.  THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND 114 

4.  THE   PASSING  OF  THE  WEST 117 

XI    SONGS  OF  THE  ARKANSAS  :  — 

1.  INVOCATION 127 

2.  WOMEN'S  SONG 131 

3.  WAR-SONG 133 

4.  DEATH-SONG 138 

XII    AMERICAN  SYMPHONY:  — 

1.  IN  THE  CITY  OF  NIGHT 140 

2.  AMERICA,   1916 144 

3.  THE  POEM  OF  MIST .  150 

4.  LINCOLN 158 


BREAKERS  AND  GRANITE 

THE  ARRIVAL 

The  ship  glides  softly  in, 

Mist  clings  about  the  harbour; 

The  muddy,  oily  Hudson 

Is  scattered  with  driftwood  darkening  the  tide; 

The  ship  glides  in  and  stops. 

The  tide  has  ebbed  all  night  and  now  will  turn. 

Grey  wraiths,  the  skyscrapers 

Loom  in  the  mist,  white  smoke  about  them  blowing. 

Dense,  dreary  rain 
Lashes  the  waters  of  the  harbour; 
The  air  hangs  flat,  unstirring, 
The  land  looms,  dead  ahead. 

The  dark,  lead-coloured  piers 
Covered  with  roofs,  crouch  low  beside  the  shore ; 
The  ship  glides  near  to  one  of  these  and  turns. 
Beyond  the  city  lies,  rain-veiled. 

i 


2  THE  ARRIVAL 

Tugs  gliding  easily, 

Brown  tugs  with  pilot-houses  perched  atop, 
Windowed  with  glass,  their  poised  gilt  eagles  shin 
ing, 
Nose  up  between  the  swinging  ship  and  the  shore, 

The  Henry  K.  Jewett  fastens  to  her  bows. 
The  Brandon  follows 

Puffing  soft-coal  smoke  in  dense  feathery  billows; 
The  Martin  B.  Flannery  finds  a  midship  berth. 

Tug  after  tug  assembles, 

One  after  the  other  till  nine  tugs  are  gathered. 
A  dense  array  of  funnels,  black,  dun,  red, 
Between  the  waiting  ship  and  the  pier  head. 
Then  on  a  sudden  they  release  their  steam. 

With  rocking  shocks,  with  throb  of  beating  engines, 
With  plumed  salutes  of  smoke  above  slim  funnels, 
With  racing  shake  of  blades  that  trample  up  the 

water, 
They   keep  their  blunt  beaks   pressed   against  our 

side. 

Minute  on  minute  passes: 

The  ship  hangs  yet  unstirring. 

Out  of  the  pilot-houses  faces  peer 

And  stare  up  at  the  wallowing  bulk  beyond, 


THE  ARRIVAL  3 

Nine  columns  of  flying  smoke 

Blue-black  or  feathery-grey,  upcurled  and  hurried, 

Rise  tumbling  to  the  sky 

In  shadowy  rushing  hosts  to  bar  our  inward  path. 

And  still  the  ship  stirs  not. 

She  fights  the  swirl  of  water  by  her  side, 

Till  a  tenth  tug,  from  somewhere  suddenly  sum 
moned, 

Comes  tooting  up  her  whistle,  loudly, 

Out  of  the  dense  grey  fog,  half-filled  \vith  waving 
ferry  boats. 

Then,  suddenly, 

The  sheer  white  bows  swing  inward, 

Quivering  in  every  fibre, 

Towards  the  waiting  dock-end  of  the  shed. 

One  after  one  the  tugs  slip  off, 

Backing  and  churning  at  the  raging  water. 

The  weary  ship  slips  in 

To  the  dark  quiet  of  her  berth  at  last; 

So  you,  America, 

Have  taken  men  from  their  free-swinging  gait 


4  THE  ARRIVAL 

About  the  seas  of  the  world,  and  pinned  them  to 

the  shore, 
By  the  harsh  effort  of  your  shoving  hands. 

May  20,  1920. 


NEW  YORK 

Out  of  the  black  granite  she  is  rising  surprising 
as  sunrise  over  the  head  of  the  Sphinx;  glittering 
towers  coated  in  linked  scales  that  seem  as  if  they 
might  melt  away,  they  are  so  pale,  but  that  day 
pours  multitudes  about  them  to  smile  and  to  threaten, 
to  sin  and  to  'scape  the  reckoning,  to  coagulate  in 
iron  knots  against  fate,  to  blot  out  life's  misery  with 
rejoicing,  to  clamour  and  to  pray. 

Restless  hammers  are  carving  new  cities  from  the 
stagnant  skies. 

Beneath,  the  earth  is  propped  and  caverned ; 
monstrous  halls  drop  with  vaulted  echoing  roofs 
dripping  and  sorrowful  far  below;  the  bells  toll 
and  the  trains  start  slowly,  clanging,  shaking  the 
earth  and  the  sad  towers  above  them  as  they  go 
banging  their  cargo  of  lost  ones  towards  the  secret 
gates  of  the  sea,  falling,  falling  with  thunder  and 
flame,  roaring  and  crawling,  shooting  and  dying 
away. 

Restless  hammers  are  carving  new  cities  from  the 
stagnant  skies. 

Aloft,  red  girders  of  rivetted  steel  hang  motion- 
5 


6  NEW  YORK 

less  over  the  abyss;  down  below  the  traffic  slides, 
and  from  the  precipitous  sides  unroll  golden  threads 
like  spiders'  contriving  carrying  their  freight.  Men 
with  hammers  are  striving  to  fasten  new  projec 
tions  to  the  edifice;  and  from  the  last  impenetrable 
over-hanging  beam,  a  man  is  dangling  on  his  belly 
guiding  the  weight;  the  clouds  explode  in  hissing 
ripples  of  snow  about  him;  the  skies  are  dim  and 
the  stream  of  life  falls  through  them  sighing  like 
wheat  that  crashes  into  the  hopper.  But  the  vast 
pinnacles  eat  into  the  clouds  and  from  their  bronze 
sides  pours  down  the  day,  sweeping  away  the  sordid 
flood  of  men  in  streams  of  shining  glory. 

Restless  hammers  are  carving  new  cities  from 
the  stagnant  skies. 

Screaming  and  flickering  like  loosened  floods  of 
blue  flame,  the  streets  run  together  amid  the  houses 
that  huddle  and  leap  and  lower  over  them.  The 
houses  quiver  with  rage  and  heat  from  heads  to 
feet;  the  facades  seem  wavering,  toppling,  tearing 
with  their  weight;  the  glaring  panes  bulge  out 
wards,  and  the  bent  red  girders  ooze  away  beneath 
them.  But  above  it  all,  above  all  the  chaos,  the 
struggle,  and  the  loss,  the  clouds  part.  Ivory  and 
gold,  heart  of  light  petrified,  bold  and  immortally 
beautiful,  lifts  a  tower  like  a  full  lily  stalk  with 


NEW  YORK  7 

crammed  pollen-coated  petals,  flame-calyx,  fretted 
and  carven,  white  phoenix  that  beats  its  wings  in 
the  light,  shrill  ecstasy  of  leaping  lines  poised  in 
flight,  partaker  of  joy  in  the  skies,  mate  of  the  sun. 
Restless  hammers  are  carving  new  cities  from  the 
stagnant  skies. 

December  4,  1914. 


MANHATTAN 

I 

White  lily  hammered  out  of  steel, 
Upspraying,  strangely  beautiful, 
Chaste  with  thrice-tempered  passion :  — 
About  your  roots  should  be  the  peace 
Of  still  clean  gardens  and  straight  walks; 
The  sad  blue  hills  and  the  high  skies 
Should  shrink  back  from  the  calm  of  you. 

But  at  your  feet  shrill  furnaces  roar, 
Iron  rails  are  clanking;  hammers  pound 
Their  stubborn  strength  to  nothingness; 
Shovels  have  scraped  the  russet  flanks 
Of  the  smooth  hillside;  through  the  gash 
Dribbles  red  slag  and  rusty  ore, 
While  grey  smoke  flecks  unspotted  skies. 

White  lily,  swaying,  tremulous, 
Chance-fashioned  by  some  muddled,  vague, 
Unthinking  fool  half-blind  with  light; 
8 


MANHATTAN 


In  petal  on  petal  you  yet  hold 
Aloft,  the  sprinkled  dew  of  stars 
While  dull  and  muddied  are  your  leaves. 


The  noise  of  hatred  that  dies  not 
Is  snarling  and  yelping  at  your  feet ; 
Red  trickles  of  oily  waste,  the  scum 
Scarce  nourishes  your  spade-hacked  sides  ; 
You  are  breaking,  my  own  lonely  flower, 
You  are  falling  withered,  without  strength, 
You  that  feared  not  the  solitude 
Of  all  the  skies,  must  snap  at  last. 


And  if  you  should  fail:  — 

If  you  should  not  maintain 

That  still  austere  delight, 

The  fools  who  made  you,  bought  with  lives  and 

pain: 

If  you  must  crash  down  to  the  red  soft  night, — 
You  twisted  flame  of  strength  men  tore  from 

earth  and  froze  — 
If  you  should  break  —  my  heart  would  break 

with  you. 


10  MANHATTAN 

II 

Half-frightened  by  the  tangled  mass 
Of  endless  forests  that  from  the  west 
Thrust  their  green  tentacles  up  the  rock; 
Half-tempted  by  the  mourning  sea, 
That  up  the  inlet  stealthily  crooks 
One  long  green  finger  beckoning  them: 
A  little  knot  of  giants  wait, 
And  on  their  foreheads  is  the  dawn. 
Some  are  like  shapeless  athletes;  some 
Haggard  spare  hunters  dressed  in  grey; 
Some  glower  in  black  hate  aloof: 
And  one  incredibly  golden-pale, 
White-breasted,  cool-flanked,  in  her  joy 
Claps  her  pink  palms  to  greet  the  day, 
Not  knowing  why. 

And  here  they  wait: 
While  up  against  them  raves  the  sea. 
And  all  day's  gates  of  fretted  gold 
Are  open  to  them,  the  wide  blue  floor 
Of  sky  is  open:  they  blink  at  it; 
They  do  not  know  what  to  make  of  it ; 
Half-furtively  they  question  it; 
But  there  is  no  reply. 


MANHATTAN  II 

They  only  know,  that  along  ago 
Across  the  seas  to  land  there  came, 
One  with  embittered  lips  and  eyes  of  flame, 
The  rebel  Angel; 

He  found  them  dull,  warm,  shapeless  clay, 
And  half  in  mockery,  made  strange  Gods: 
Then  with  the  spark  hid  in  his  breast, 
He  quickened  them,  and  went  his  way. 

And  still  they  wait; 

And  at  the  eastern  gate 

Gurgles  and  seethes  the  sea  reproachfully, 

Crying  to  them,  "  How  long  will  you  wait? 

For  the  afternoon  is  gone  by,  the  cool  of  the 
day. 

The  thunder  of  God  will  soon  seek  you  un 
bidden  ; 

Do  you  not  hear  grim  laughter  from  afar? 

Step  boldly  out  to  us;  follow  the  da\vn's  new 


Yet,  still  aloof,  they  hesitate, 
Smiling  and  deaf,  huge  childlike  gods. 
And  never  think  that  soon  to  come 
Out  of  the  seas  in  mail  of  light, 
His  face  a  mystery  of  flame, 


12  MANHATTAN 

Will  rise  the  Angel  with  the  Sword; 
To  give  them  love,  but  not  the  power 
To  make  their  love  more  strong  than  death ; 
To  shut  them  out  from  that  strange  garden 
In  which  by  chance  they  came  to  be. 


Ill 

Crash  of  plates,  dribble  of  plates, 
Bang  of  plates,  clatter  of  plates, 
Tick  —  tick  —  tick  of  plates, 
Screaming  —  screaming  —  screaming. 

Plates  sliding  on  slippery  floors, 
Plates  bouncing  off  shiny  walls, 
Shrieking  and  clanking  past  my  ears: 
"  Time  —  Time  —  Time  — " 

Stupid  faces,  vulgar  faces, 

Flurried  faces,  worried  faces, 

Food  is  cheap:  time  is  dear: 

Snatch  five  minutes  ere  the  dynamo  clicks ; 

"Time  —  Time— " 

Tinkle  of  plates,  mutter  of  plates, 
Scramble  of  plates,  shamble  of  plates, 


MANHATTAN  13 

China  coffins,  each  one  enclosing  an  instant  — 
Without  the  hungry  skyscrapers  wait  for  men. 


IV 

Draped  in  soft-shaded  robes  of  light, 

In  sullen  darkness  helmeted, 

Glittering  with  coppery  foil; 

In  row  on  row  they  stand  like  women 

Slender  or  squat,  lovely  or  vile, 

Offering  themselves  casually 

To  the  cold  lips  of  debauchee  Night. 

Erect  and  pale;  strange,  beautiful, 

Their  looks  fixed  on  the  distant  skies, 

They  dream  —  of  what  thing  do  they  dream  ? 

In  the  dull  forest  some  red  hunter 

Perhaps  sleeps  yet  —  he  who  will  tame  them: 

And  when  his  sinews  press  upon  them, 

All  unashamed,  their  garments  then  will  fall. 

Hawked,  peddled,  cheapened,  made  more  vile 

each  instant, 

Soiled  and  yet  chaste,  aloof  from  any  passion, 
They  watch  incuriously  the  nights'  betrayal : 


MANHATTAN 

Stale  scented  hands  and  liquorish  lips  have 
brushed  theirs, 

They  do  not  heed  them,  nor  harsh  voices  gab 
bling, 

For  with  virginal  joy  they  tremble  for  the 
dawn. 

November  24  —  December  4,  1914. 


SKYSCRAPERS 

What  are  these,  angels  or  demons, 

Or  steel  and  stone? 

Soaring,  alert, 

Striped  with  diversified  windows, 

These  sweep  aloft 

And  the  multitude  crane  their  necks  to  them :  — 

Are  they  angels,  or  demons, 

Or  stone? 

If  the  grey  sapless  people, 
Moving  along  the  street,  thought  them  angels, 
They  too  would  be  beautiful, 
Erect  and  laughing  to  the  sky  for  joy. 
If  as  demons  they  feared  them, 
They  would  smite  with  fierce  hatred 
These  brown  haughty  foreheads: 
They  would  not  suffer  them  to  hold  the  sun  in 
trust. 

What  are  they,  then,  angels,  or  demons, 
Or  stone? 

15 


1 6  SKYSCRAPERS 

Deaf  sightless  towers 

Unendowed  yet  with  life; 

Soaring  vast  effort 

Spent  in  the  sky  till  it  breaks  there. 

You  men  of  my  country 

Who  shaped  these  proud  visions, 

You  have  yet  to  find  godhead 

Not  here,  but  in  the  human  heart. 


May  25,  1920. 


NEW  YORK  SKETCHES 

OVERLOOKING  THE  HUDSON, 
AUTUMN 

A  tinge  of  russet,  purple,  blue;  vague  heights, 
Ribbons  of  turquoise  threaded  with  russet-brown; 
A  sail  of  thin  silk  quivers  like  a  butterfly, 
By  chimneys  and  a  long  squat  bulk  with  towers. 

Slim  motionless  tree-stems  are  carelessly  scattered, 
Like  points  of  exclamation  in  the  stillness. 
A   bro\vn-hulled   boat   buzzes   about   in   the   fore 
ground, 

A  slow  barge  loaded  deep  with  painted  bars  of  steel 
Glows  like  a  heap  of  rubies. 

Haze  curls,  drifts,  floats,  subsides,  and  lifts  itself; 
Making  the  distance  delicately  unreal, 
As  a  pearl  cloud  upon  the  sky ; 
Masking  the  river  like  a  stream  of  silk, 


1 8          OVERLOOKING  THE  HUDSON,  AUTUMN 

Will  this  water-colour  ecstasy, 
This  delicate  fan  of  cool  tones  blending, 
Consume  the  great  black  factories  yonder, 
Or  will  the  factories  shatter  it? 


CENTRAL  PARK 

A  frieze  in  movement, 
Faces  to  the  sunlight, 
Curved  necks,  keen  ears,  long  sweep  of  splendid 

tails, 

Quivering  hoofs  rattling, 
Keen  flanks  quivering, 

Like  flames  the  millionaires  pass  in  the  morning; 
Out  of  the  earth  they  seem  to  spring, 
And  pass 
Clattering, 
Between  the  windblown  clouds  and  the  motionless 

mournful  trees. 

These  are  the  children  of  the  sun: 
Carelessly  galloping 
Towards   the   dull  wavering  storm-cloud   uprising 

with  mutters  and  flashes  of  flame, 
With  tragic  unseeing  smiles 
They  go  on. 


BROADWAY'S  CANYON 


This  is  like  the  nave  of  an  unfinished  cathedral 

With  steep  shadowy  sides. 

Light  and  shade  alternate, 

Repeat  and  die  away. 

Golden  traceries  of  sunlight, 

Blue  buttresses  of  shadow, 

Answer  like  pier  and  column, 

All  the  way  down  to  the  sea. 


But  the  temple  is  still  roofless: 

Only  the  sky  above  it 

Closes  it  round,  encircling 

With  its  weightless  vault  of  blue. 

There  is  no  image  or  inscription  or  altar, 

And  the  clamour  of  free-moving  multitudes 

Are  its  tireless  organ  tones, 

While  the  hammers  beat  out  its  chimes. 

20 


BROADWAY'S  CANYON  21 

II 

Blue  grey  smoke  swings  heavily, 
Fuming  from  leaden  censers, 
Upwards  about  the  street. 
Lamps  glimmer  with  crimson  points  of  flame. 
The  black  canyon 
Bares  its  gaunt,  stripped  sides. 
Heavily,  oppressively,  the  skies  roll  on  above  it, 
Like  curses  yet  unfulfilled. 
The  wind  shrieks  and  crashes, 
The  burly  trucks  rumble; 

Ponderous  as  funeral-cars,  undraped,  and  unstrewn 
with  flowers. 


THE  ALLEYWAYS 

Between  the  square  resolute  buildings 
That  shatter  and  refract  the  sun, 
Hidden  away  the  alleyways 
Mourn  in  blue  gloom. 

A  cart  is  unloading  square  cases, 
It  rattles  on  the  granite  and  disappears. 
A  man  slinks  in  as  if  some  hidden  sin 
Followed  him  with  its  fears. 


When  the  streets  are  freshly  lighted, 
And  the  pleasure-lamps  know  their  power; 
Down  the  worn  stairways  of  the  alleyways, 
The  ghosts  creep  —  it  is  their  hour. 


In  a  blue  mist  half-wavering, 
They  choke  up  the  alleyway : 
Amid  the  slush  and  the  rubbish, 
They  clutter  grey. 

22 


THE  ALLEYWAYS  23 

All  the  failures  and  incomplete  efforts, 

Are  theirs  to  toil  with  and  keep: 

They   seem   to   be  striving   to  build   dream-castles 

While  the  city  is  asleep. 

In  the  morning  up  the  dizzy-limbed  ladders, 
That  crawl  down  into  the  muck, 
Wearily  the  nimble  ghosts  lift  themselves, 
Like  blue  smoke. 

A  cart  is  unloading  square  cases, 
It  rumbles  away  with  a  bitter  refrain  ; 
And  the  sense  of  effort  unfinished, 
Throbs  and  thumps  at  each  window  pane. 


OLD  JEWISH  CEMETERY 

Barred  in  on  three  sides  by  dark  windowed  build 
ings, 

They  wait,  the  exiles  who  afar  were  scattered ; 

After  so  many  centuries, 

United  here  at  last. 

The  city  does  not  heed  them, 

It  does  not  think  on  old  lips  worn  with  praying, 

On  old  eyes  grey  with  sorrow, 

On  old  hands  folded  with  grief. 

After  so  many  centuries, 

The  stones  stand  here  upon  an  alien  soil. 

In  the  midst  of  the  hurry  and  scorn  of  a  too  eager 
city,— 

Until  Jerusalem  rises  like  a  bride, 

Out  of  some  great  new  daybreak; 

Facing  the  hidden  far-off  east,  they  wait. 


24 


LONGUE  VUE 

Across  the  Hudson,  a  mile  away,  loom  pale  brown 

cliffs,  the  Palisades: 
On  the  verandah   here,   bored  couples  eat,   lifting 

their  tea  in  jewelled  hands. 
Between   them   goes   the   river  seaward,    frowning 

brown  shadow,  naked  light. 

A  steamer  cuts  through  it,  shooting  outwards  rip 
ples  in  patterns  of  blue  and  brown. 
Gods  of  this  land  who  shaped  these  cliffs,  whose 

fireless  altars  no  one  heeds, 
Make  peace  between  me  and  these  rocks,  let  me  not 

face  their  force  in  vain; 
Be  in  my  heart  a  barrier,  as  clean  and  cold  and 

stark  as  these, 
To  shut  out  sense  of  silken  hose  and  gewgawed 

ornaments  of  lawns. 

December  1914  —  June  1920. 


NEW  ENGLAND  SUNSET 

The  sky,  blue  of  metal,  through  which  the  sun 
blows  in  passing  many  a  hammered  petal  of  gold, 
rose,  vermilion,  from  its  frozen  lips.  The  water 
deepest  blue  of  sapphires,  glancing  flint-shaped  play 
of  wavelets  out  of  which  the  sun  strikes  coppery 
fires.  The  earth  smooth  blue  of  granite;  bald 
scarps  undulating,  modulating;  brown,  grey-brown, 
blue-grey  and  blue.  The  trees  brittle  coral,  blue 
and  silver,  birch  and  maple,  crackling,  shaking  thin 
ner  than  coral  ever  grew. 

Gurgle,  boom,  surge:  the  sea  is  scouring  and 
worrying  the  granite.  All  day  long  under  the  wind 
that  roars  down  from  northeastward,  the  tide  has 
been  rising:  wrinkled  waves  of  bluish  steel  tipped 
with  magic  sprays  of  ice.  The  shallow  water 
clashes  and  falls  in  tinkling  crystals  and  waterfalls 
over  the  shaggy  jagged  sides.  The  tide  is  not  yet 
fully  risen  although  it  is  near  sunset.  In  the  west 
a  few  dull  smoky-purple  clouds  resist  yet  the  full 
flood  of  trebly  refined  light  which  the  sun  is  pour 
ing  still  from  a  gap  between  the  hills.  Surge, 
boom  and  gurgle:  the  granite  rocks  and  thrills. 
26 


NEW  ENGLAND  SUNSET  27 

From  far  away,  the  upheaved  boulders,  tossed 
and  scattered  up  the  hillside,  look  to  a  city  that  was 
builded  with  narrow  lanes  and  houses  pressing 
downwards  to  the  sea.  One  can  almost  trace  the 
fretted  lines  of  chimneys,  almost  see  the  rising  coils 
of  smoke.  Rusty  lichens  spot  the  granite  rocks 
with  scarlet  smudges,  masses  of  crumbled  earth 
upsurge  amid  them.  Yonder  is  one  that  is  grey  and 
barren,  towering  like  a  monument.  Besides  it  is 
another,  golden  on  top  and  curved  like  a  dome 
by  some  forgotten  architect.  There  is  another  deep 
brown  and  squat,  like  the  church  of  some  dead  sect. 
Through  the  fantastic  play  of  sunlight  and  wind 
over  their  surfaces,  maybe  pulses  and  plays  the  life 
of  some  strange  deity.  The  few  last  clouds  re 
maining  throw  over  them  pathetic  violet  shadows 
shifting  from  time  to  time.  Elsewhere  there  is 
nothing  but  glancing  knives  of  sunlight,  cutting 
through  the  rime,  chipping,  hacking,  nicking,  flick 
ering,  tapping  at  these  barriers.  The  wind  whirls 
the  long  dead  grasses  about  them,  like  a  million  thin 
grey  hands  striving  in  vain  to  destroy  the  secret 
powers  of  the  stone.  They  are  blown  this  way  and 
that.  The  sun  is  almost  gone. 

Gurgle,  boom,  surge:  the  sea  no  more  is  flat  and 
blue.  It  rises,  rises,  rises,  steadily  eating  its  path- 


28  NEW  ENGLAND  SUNSET 

way  through.  It  is  a  shallow,  cruel  sea ;  crabs  and 
scavenger-fish  cling  greedily  to  the  granite  slabs 
beneath,  grinding  in  their  mandibles  the  little  frag 
ments  that  it  tears  away  in  death.  Now  the  sea 
falls,  but  to  rise  again.  At  each  hissing  expiration 
of  its  pain,  the  sun  paints  it  with  copper-yellow 
flame.  It  seems  as  if  covered  with  little  points  of 
fire,  running  towards  the  hillside,  which  sweep 
still  upwards  and  higher.  Surge,  boom,  gurgle. 
It  must  fling  'mid  topmost  boulders  one  great  frozen 
torch  of  silver  ere  the  sun  puts  out  its  lamp  and 
goes  away. 

Now  the  sun  whirls  its  last  fire  lances  against 
the  glancing  edges  of  granite.  They  stick  and 
kindle  and  hang  flapping.  Here  a  polished,  wind- 
smoothed  face  glows  all  over  as  if  covered  with 
rows  of  sheeted  panes,  that  dangle  in  loose  plates  for 
the  sun  to  tap  his  tune  upon.  Here  a  hulking 
shapeless  mass,  like  a  great  grey  frog,  wears  one 
blue-white  diamond  on  his  forehead.  Now  that 
other  towering  one,  which  seems  to  lean  over  a 
low  damp-looking  spot,  circled  with  rows  of  topaz 
lanterns,  is  slowly  going  out.  But  over  there  that 
dull  rakish  looking  row  which  stare  and  jostle  each 
other  like  tenements  in  the  slums;  why,  they  fairly 
burn  with  light:  they  are  more  gay  than  any  now! 


NEW  ENGLAND  SUNSET  29 

Surge,  boom,  and  gurgle:  the  sea  swelters  under 
a  menacing  glare  of  bronze.  The  ebb  and  flow  of 
breakers  races  onwards  without  stint.  Now  the 
dying  sky  takes  the  hint:  it,  too,  rekindles  with 
unearthly  light  burning  away  the  black-speckled 
curtains  that  ascend  into  the  night.  Is  that  the 
moon  rising?  Redder  and  redder  the  sky  becomes: 
it  flashes  surprising;  with  rosy  arcs  it  whistles  and 
hums.  What  is  that  sound  ?  It  is  the  wind  which 
is  bellowing  like  maddened  sirens;  the  sea  that  is 
clashing  like  jangled  bells.  The  crimson  fumes 
mount  up  and  overswell  the  sky,  drowning  the 
stars  in  their  menace,  higher  and  higher!  Fire! 
Fire!  All  the  sky  is  afire! 

The  sky,  ashen  grey  of  smoke  through  which  the 
choked  light  struggles  slowly  bringing  out  earth's 
hideous  ugliness;  the  water  one  grey  messy  sheet 
of  ice ;  the  earth  dull  grey  of  trampled  snows,  colour 
less,  sullen.  The  trees  stark  masses  of  black  ragged 
pines,  shrieking,  whispering  with  the  wind  that 
bends  and  lashes  their  lines.  Darkness  on  the  trees, 
stark  and  brooding;. darkness,  total  darkness  on  the 
earth. 

March  4,  1915. 


NEW  ENGLAND  WINTER 

Red-brown  earth,  Indian  earth, 
Scorched  earth,  yet  frozen  earth, 
Earth  everywhere  deliciously  sombre, 
Beneath  the  snow-blue  afternoon: 
Stern  earth,  secret  earth, 
Rock  strewn  hillside  and  gurgling  stream, 
You  hold  some  mystery  of  the  past, 
Which  you  can  never  explain  —  which  no  one  has 
taught  you  to  speak. 


Earth  for  roamers,  earth  for  hunters,  earth  desolate 
and  free  as  any  ocean, 

Rolling  crest  and  swampy  hollow,  earth  unshaped 
by  any  tradition, 

Half-finished  earth,  useless  earth,  where  are  your 
scoundrels,  saints  and  lovers? 

The  boulders  grin  and  the  east  wind  shakes  dog 
gedly  the  black  pines. 


NEW  ENGLAND  WINTER  31 

Earth  everywhere  rejecting  life  —  sparse  graveyards 

and  sparse  forests  — 
Mournful  meadows  and  white  birches  that  quiver 

ghostily  — 
The  marsh  breaking  away  to  seaward  in  long  fiat 

mournful  circles, 
The  tide-rock  lifting  its  forehead  in  the  distance 

sullenly : 

Earth  that  should  have  been  left  a  wilderness  — 

earth  not  meant  for  habitation, 
Sordid,  grasping,  evil  earth,  your  robes  have  dropt 

from  you; 
Naked  you  lie,  hard  sinews  out  of  the  snow  half 

peeping: 
And  only  the  warmth  of  a  land  you  scorn  could  ever 

your  life  renew. 

1914. 


THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 

Out  from  my  window-sill  I  lean 
And  see  a  straight,  four-storied  row 
Of  houses. 

Once  long  ago 

These  had  their  glory;  they  were  built 

In  the  fair  palmy  days  before 

The  Civil  War  when  all  the  seas 

Saw  the  white  sails  of  Yankee  ships 

Scurrying  home  with  spice  and  gold. 

And  many  of  these  houses  hung 

Proud  wisps  of  crape  upon  their  doors 

On  learning  that  a  son  had  died 

At  Chancellorsville  or  Fredericksburg, 

Their  offering  to  the  Union  side. 

But  man's  forever  drifting  will 
Again  took  hold  of  him;  again, 
Before  some  plastering  had  dried, 
Society  packed  up,  moved  away. 
Now,  would  you  look  upon  these  houses, 
32 


THE  EMPTY  HOUSE  33 

You  would  not  think  they  ever  had  a  prime, 

A  grim  four-storied  serried  row 

Of  rooms  to  let;  at  any  time 

Tenants  are  moving  in  or  out: 

Families  drifting  down  or  struggling  still 

To  keep  their  heads  up  and  not  down. 

A  tragic  busy  pettiness 

Has  settled  on  them  all 

But  one. 

And  in  that  one,  when  I  came  here, 

A  family  lived,  but  with  its  trunks  packed  up, 

And  now  that  family's  gone. 


Its  shutterless,  Mindless  windows  let  you  look  inside 

And  see  the  sunlight  checkering  the  bare  floor 

With  patterns  from  the  window  frames 

All  day; 

Its  backyard  neatly  swept 

Contains  no  crammed  ash-barrels  and  no  lines 

For  clothes  to  flap  about  on; 

It  does  not  look  by  day  as  if  it  had 

Ever  a  living  soul  beneath  its  roof. 

It  marks  a  gap  in  the  grim  line, 

No  house  at  all,  but  an  untenanted  shell. 


34  THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 

But  when  the  windows  up  and  down  those  fronts 

With  yellow  glimmer  of  gas  blaze  forth, 

I  know  it  is  the  only  house  that  lives 

In  all  that  long  four-storied  row. 

The  others  are  mere  shelves,  layer  on  layer, 

Of  warring,  separate  personalities; 

A  jangle  and  a  tangle  of  emotions, 

Without  a  single  meaning  running  through  them. 

But  it,  the  empty  house,  has  mastered  all  its  secrets ; 

Eyelessly  proud, 

It  watches,  it  is  master; 

It  sees  the  other  houses  still  incessantly  learning 

The  secret  it  remembers, 

And  which  it  can  repeat  the  last  dim  syllable  of. 

October,  1915. 


CLIPPER-SHIPS 

Beautiful  as  a  tiered  cloud,  skysails  set  and 
shrouds  twanging,  she  emerges  from  the  surges  that 
keep  running  away  before  day  on  the  low  Pacific 
shore.  With  the  roar  of  the  wind  blowing  half 
a  gale  after,  she  heels  and  lunges,  and  buries  her 
bows  in  the  smother,  lifting  them  swiftly,  and 
scattering  the  glistening  spray-drops  from  her  jib- 
sails  with  laughter.  Her  spars  are  cracking,  her 
royals  are  half  splitting,  her  lower  stunsail  booms 
are  bent  aside,  like  bowstrings  ready  to  loose,  and 
the  water  is  roaring  into  her  scuppers,  but  she  still 
staggers  out  under  a  full  press  of  sail,  her  upper 
trucks  enkindled  by  the  sun  into  shafts  of  rosy 
flame. 

Oh,  the  anchor  is  up  and  the  sails  they  are  set, 
and  it's  'way  Rio ;  'round  Cape  Stiff  and  up  to  Bos 
ton,  ninety  days  hauling  at  the  ropes:  the  decks  slope 
and  the  stays  creak  as  she  lurches  into  it,  sending 
her  jib  awash  at.  .every  thrust,  and  a  handful  of 
dust  and  a  thirst  to  make  you  weep,  are  all  we  get 
for  being  two  years  away  to  sea. 
35 


36  CLIPPER  SHIPS 

Topgallant  stunsail  has  carried  away!  Ease  the 
spanker!  The  anchor  is  rusted  on  the  deck.  Men 
in  short  duck  trousers,  wide-brimmed  straw  hats, 
with  brown  mahogany  faces,  pace  up  and  down, 
spinning  the  wornout  yarns  they  told  a  year  ago. 
Some  are  coiling  rope;  some  smoke;  "Chips"  is 
picking  oakum  near  the  boats.  Ten  thousand  miles 
away  lies  their  last  port.  In  the  rigging  climbs  a 
hairy  monkey,  and  a  green  parakeet  screams  at  the 
masthead.  In  the  dead  calm  of  a  boiling  noonday 
near  the  line,  she  lifts  her  spread  of  shining  canvas 
from  heel  to  truck,  from  jib  o'  jib  to  ringtail,  from 
moonsails  to  watersails.  Men  have  hung  their 
washing  in  the  stays  so  she  can  get  more  way  on 
her.  She  ghosts  along  before  an  imperceptible 
breeze,  the  sails  hanging  limp  in  the  cross-trees,  and 
clashing  against  the  masts.  She  is  a  proud  white 
albatross  skimming  across  the  ocean,  beautiful  as 
a  tiered  cloud.  Oh,  a  Yankee  ship  comes  down  the 
river;  blow,  boys,  blow:  her  masts  and  yards  they 
shine  like  silver:  blow,  my  bully  boys,  blow:  she's 
a  crack  ship,  a  dandy  clipper,  nine  hundred  miles 
from  land;  she's  a  down-Easter  from  Massachu 
setts,  and  she's  bound  to  the  Rio  Grande! 

Where  are  the  men  who  put  to  sea  in  her  on  her 
first  voyage?  Some  have  piled  their  bones  in  Cali- 


CLIPPER  SHIPS  37 

fornia  among  the  hides;  some  died  frozen  off  the 
Horn  in  snowstorms;  some  slipped  down  between 
two  greybacks,  when  the  yards  were  joggled  sud 
denly.  Still  she  glistens  beautifully,  her  decks 
snow-white  with  constant  scrubbing  as  she  sweeps 
into  some  empty  sailless  bay  which  sleeps  all  day, 
where  the  wild  deer  skip  away  when  she  fires  her 
eighteen  pounder,  the  sound  reverberating  about  the 
empty  hills.  San  Francisco?  No:  San  Francisco 
will  not  be  built  for  a  dozen  years  to  come.  Mean 
while  she  hums  with  the  tumult  of  loading.  The 
mutineers,  even,  are  let  out  of  their  irons  and 
flogged  and  fed.  Every  day  from  when  the  dawn 
flares  up  red  amid  the  hills  to  the  hour  it  drops 
dead  to  westward,  men  walk  gawkily,  balancing 
on  their  heads  the  burden  of  heavy,  stiff  hides. 
Now  the  anchor  is  up  and  the  sails  they  are  set  and 
its  'way,  Rio.  Boston  girls  are  pulling  at  the  ropes : 
only  three  months  of  trouble  yet :  time  for  us  to  go ! 
Beautiful  as  a  tiered  cloud  she  flies  out  seaward, 
and  on  her  decks  loaf  and  stumble  a  luckless  crowd ; 
the  filthy  sweepings  of  the  stews.  In  a  week,  in  a 
day,  they  have  spent  a  year's  wages,  swilling  it 
away  and  letting  the  waste  of  it  run  down  among 
the  gutters.  How  were  these  deadbeats  bribed  to 
go?  Only  the  Ann  Street  runners  know.  Dagos, 


38  CLIPPER  SHIPS 

Dutchmen,  Souwegians,  niggers,  crimp-captured 
greenhorns,  they  loaf  up  on  the  after  deck,  some  of 
them  already  wrecks,  so  sick  they  wish  they  had 
never  been  born.  Before  them  all  the  "  old  man  " 
calls  for  a  bucket  of  salt  water  to  wash  off  his  shore 
face.  While  he  is  at  it,  telling  them  how  he  will 
haze  them  till  they  are  dead  if  they  try  soldiering, 
but  it  will  be  good  grub  and  easy  work  if  they  hand, 
reef  and  steer  and  heave  the  lead,  his  officers  are 
below,  rummaging  through  the  men's  dunnage,  pull 
ing  out  heavers,  prickers,  rum  bottles,  sheath  knives, 
and  pistols.  On  each  grizzled  half-cowed  face  ap 
pears  something  between  a  sheepish  grin,  a  smirk 
of  fear,  a  threat  of  treachery,  and  the  dogged  resig 
nation  of  a  brute.  But  the  mate  —  Bucko  Dougles 
is  his  name  —  is  the  very  same  that  booted  three 
men  off  the  masthead  when  they  were  shortening 
sail  in  the  teeth  of  a  Cape  Horn  snorter.  Two  of 
them  fell  into  the  sea,  and  the  third  was  tossed  still 
groaning  into  the  water.  Only  last  night  the  cap 
tain  stuck  his  cigar  butt  into  one  poor  swabber's 
face  for  not  minding  the  compass,  and  gave  Jim 
Baines  a  taste  of  ratline  hash  for  coming  up  on  deck 
with  dirty  hands.  Meanwhile  under  a  grand 
spread  of  canvas,  one  hundred  feet  from  side  to 
side,  the  ship  rides  up  the  parallels.  From  aloft 


CLIPPER  SHIPS  39 

through  the  blue  stillness  of  a  tropic  night,  crammed 
with  stars,  with  thunder  brewing  in  the  horizon, 
a  mournful  echo  rises  and  swells: 

Oh,   my   name   is   hanging  Johnny, 
Hooray,  hooray! 

Oh,   my  name   is   hanging  Johnny, 
So  hang,  boys,  hang. 

The  Great  Republic,  launched  before  thirty- 
thousand  people,  her  main  truck  overlooking  the 
highest  steeple  of  the  town,  the  eagle  at  her  bows, 
and  colours  flying,  now  in  her  first  and  last  port, 
is  slowly  dying.  She  is  a  charred  hulk,  with  top 
pling  masts,  seared  gilding,  and  blistered  sides.  The 
Alert  no  more  slides  pertly  through  the  bergs  of  the 
Horn.  The  desolate  barrens  of  Staten  Land, 
where  no  man  was  ever  born,  hold  her  bones.  The 
Black  Bailer  Lightning,  that  took  eighty  thousand 
dollars'  worth  of  cargo  around  the  world  in  one 
quick  trip,  was  hurled  and  ripped  to  pieces  on  some 
unchartered  reef  or  other.  The  Dreadnought  dis 
appeared  in  a  hurricane's  smother  of  foam.  The 
Sovereign  of  the  Seas,  that  never  furled  her  top 
sails  for  ten  years,  was  sheared  clean  amidships  by 
the  bows  of  an  iron  steamer  as  she  left  her  last  port. 
The  slaver,  Bald  Eagle,  cut  an  unlucky  career  short 


40  CLIPPER  SHIPS 

when  she  parted  with  her  anchor  and  piled  up  on 
the  Paracels  where  the  pirate  junks  are  waiting  for 
every  ship  that  swells  out  over  the  horizon.  The 
Antelope  was  caught  off  the  Grande  Ladrone  in  the 
northeast  monsoon;  she's  gone.  The  Flying  Cloud, 
proud  as  she  was  of  beating  every  ship  that  carried 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  or  the  St.  George's  flag,  could 
not  race  faster  than  a  thunder-bolt  that  fell  one  day 
on  her  deck  and  turned  her  to  a  cloud  of  flame  — 
everything  burned  away  but  her  fame!  No  more 
will  California  hear  the  little  Pilgrim's  part 
ing  cheer.  The  crew  took  to  an  open  boat  when 
their  ship  was  scuttled  by  a  privateer.  So  they  die 
out,  year  after  year. 

Sometimes  the  lookout  on  a  great  steamer  wallow 
ing  and  threshing  through  the  heavy  seas  by  night, 
sees  far  off  on  his  lee  quarter  something  like  a  lofty 
swinging  light.  Beautiful  as  a  tiered  cloud,  a 
ghostly  clipper-ship  emerges  from  the  surges  that 
keep  running  away  before  day  on  the  the  low  Pa 
cific  shore.  Her  upper  works  are  enkindled  by  the 
sun  into  shafts  of  rosy  flame.  Swimming  like  a 
duck,  steering  like  a  fish,  easy  yet  dry,  lively  yet 
stiff,  she  lifts  cloud  on  cloud  of  crowded  stainless 
sail.  She  creeps  abeam,  within  hail,  she  dips,  she 
chases,  she  outpaces  like  a  mettlesome  racer  the 


CLIPPER  SHIPS  41 

lumbering  tea-kettle  that  keeps  her  company.  Be 
fore  she  fades  into  the  weather  quarter,  the  lookout 
cries:  "  Holy  Jiggers,  are  you  the  Flying  Dutch 
man,  that  you  go  two  knots  to  our  one  ? " 
Hoarsely  comes  back  this  answer  from  the  sail: 
"Challenge  is  our  name:  America  our  nation: 
Bully  Waterman  our  master:  we  can  beat  Crea 
tion." 


And  it's  'way,  Rio ; 

Way  —  hay  —  hay,  Rio; 

O,  fare  you  well,  my  pretty  young  girl, 

For  we're  bound  to  the  Rio  Grande. 

March,  1915. 


LAKE  SHORE  AT  NIGHT 

At   the   edge   of   a   beautiful   gulf   of    gloom   and 

stillness, 
The  city  rises: 

Glittering  with  thousands  of  spangles 
Seen  between  the  dull  smoke  of  the  trains 
That  leap  out  shoreward, 
Or  bump  empty  freight-cars  into  each  other, 
With  a  noise  like  surf  collapsing. 

One  or  two  lights  low  down 

Seemingly  blurred  by  mist, 

The  grey  outline  of  dunes  beyond, 

And  watery  stars. 

For  the  wind  is  bringing  rain 

To  stream  down  the  spangled  house-fronts, 

To  make  the  lights  of  the  city  run  together, 

Growing  more  dim. 

At  the  edge  of  a  beautiful  gulf  of  gloom  and  stillness 
The  city  rises: 

42 


LAKE  SHORE  AT  NIGHT  43 

And  behind  her  painted  mask 

She  frowns  a  little,  growing  more  weary, 

Yet  shedding  abroad  to  the  night 

The  glow  of  a  thousand  spangles, 

Her  glory,  where  winds  will  whirl  it 

Through  dry  blades  of  grass  on  the  dunes. 

February,  1915. 


THE  BUILDING  OF  CHICAGO 

Out  of  the  land  of  limitless  snows  the  north  wind 
arose  and  gathered  up  his  thin  black  arrows.  The 
red  wind,  the  tuneless  wind,  started  his  long  easy 
lope  down  the  unsloping  plains  of  the  Land  of 
Little  Sticks.  From  the  swamp,  from  the  lake,  he 
blew  aloft  in  the  sky  clouds  of  flapping  black  geese. 
Shrieking  and  whimpering,  like  rabbits  caught  by 
the  lynx,  the  plains  reeled  away  beneath  him,  frayed 
ribbons  of  tape.  He  danced  and  shot  and  swirled 
and  dived  amid  pale  waters  flashing  far  away  to 
the  horizon.  He  curled  and  twisted  and  hissed  like 
a  running  snake  amid  the  clamour  of  geese  and  the 
low,  mournful  howling  of  wolves  that  ran  over  the 
snow  after  his  foot-tracks. 

Muttering  and  shaking  his  heavy  head,  matted 
and  shaggy  with  sleep  of  the  dead,  the  west  wind 
began  to  creep  out  of  the  rust-stained  crags  that 
fell  shattered  to  the  base  of  the  canyon.  He  yawned 
and  growled  horribly,  and  from  his  hot  breath  the 
rocks  dissolved  as  if  a  giant  fist  had  smitten  them. 
In  the  twisted  crannies  the  sound  reverberated  with 
44 


THE  BUILDING  OF  CHICAGO  45 

the  low  dull  echo  of  muddy  torrents.  Mournfully 
and  heavily  it  rumbled  off,  pushing  the  clouds  be 
fore  it,  shuffling  and  scrambling  eastward  with  sul 
len  explosions  of  pent  ire  and  spitted  fire  of  forked 
lightning.  Gloomily  it  lowered  over  the  rolling 
breadth  of  the  prairie,  smashing  the  flowers,  and 
uprooting  the  grasses  \vith  its  long  claws  of  rain. 

The  south  wind  whimpered  as  she  sidled  up  the 
great  swaying  bend  of  the  river.  Interwoven  green 
ery  entangled  her  feet.  Her  eyes  were  sorrowful 
and  she  scattered  dull  white  flowers.  She  loved 
the  full  brown  body  of  the  fat  river  rolling  its  mud 
through  the  forest.  He  would  not  heed  her,  as  he 
ate  away  at  his  banks  every  day,  or  swirled  in  oily 
bubbles  away  to  hide  in  some  low  bayou,  playing 
soft  pipes  with  reeds  that  rustled  amid  down-swaying 
mosses  from  motionless  cypress  trees.  The  south 
wind  sought  the  river  at  his  source,  and  when  his 
course  grew  more  rapid  through  the  rolling  green 
bluffs  she  fell  pensive  and  silent.  She  crept,  she 
straggled,  lisping,  whispering:  "Is  he  there?" 

The  east  wind  snorted  and  chuckled  in  rude 
strangling  gasps  as  he  came  down  from  the  moun 
tains.  He  was  as  blue  as  a  fish,  for  he  had  seen 
the  sea,  and  at  his  coming  the  gnarled  black  oak 
trees  crackled  and  rattled  with  gusts  of  sardonic 


46  THE  BUILDING  OF  CHICAGO 

laughter,  spilling  brown  torrents  of  leaves.  They 
bent,  they  broke,  and  he  jeered  at  them.  Now  and 
then  he  paused  to  splash  with  snow  some  sullen 
council  of  smoky  blue  pines,  or  to  shatter  the  rocks 
with  axes  of  ice.  He  flickered,  he  relapsed,  he  re- 
whirled  the  silent  snow  drift  that  the  north  wind 
had  fashioned  and  then  trailed  over  it  his  streaming 
robes,  making  it  run  away  in  oily  trickles  of  rosy 
ooze  to  the  river.  He  laughed,  he  advanced,  and 
at  each  turning  of  the  hills  he  changed  his  mind. 

Now  the  winds  unite  together,  and  they  dance 
and  change  the  weather  on  a  low,  sandy  barren  of 
the  plains.  To  the  north  frozen  waters;  to  the 
east,  rainy  forests;  to  the  south,  lowland  valleys; 
to  the  west,  gusty  plains.  They  change  hands  and 
weave  their  figures,  and  not  a  single  one  lingers,  as 
they  veer  through  the  queer  varied  year.  Some 
times  it  is  the  north  wind  that  carries  the  sad  cry 
ing  south  wind  to  his  lakes  and  tundras  to  swelter 
awhile  under  a  soft  blue  sky  half  shrouded  in  a 
haze  canopy.  Then,  like  black  arrows,  swarms  of 
flies  and  gnats  arise  from  the  shallows  and  sting 
her  to  death.  Sometimes  the  east  arid  west  wind 
fight  all  day  with  delight.  They  are  red  marks 
on  the  blue  body  of  the  east  wind,  and  drops  glare 
on  the  grey  shaggy  cloak  of  that  old  bear,  the  west. 


THE  BUILDING  OF  CHICAGO  47 

Sometimes  north  and  south,  and  east  and  west  chase 
each  other  like  sister  and  brother.  But  they  never 
rest  or  tire  in  the  least,  but  with  many  a  kiss  or  blow 
on  the  mouth  they  hurry  forthright  nor  slacken  their 
race. 

Behold,  what  the  winds  have  created;  a  whole 
world's  meeting  place!  Black  towers,  like  bastions 
of  iron,  break  the  wrinkles  of  the  lake,  stop  the  roll 
of  the  silent  green  prairie,  turn  back  the  crackling 
dense  grown  forests,  arrest  the  meandering  river. 
Men  of  the  north,  huge,  blond  and  drunken,  come 
to  roll  and  stroll  and  sleep  and  sit  brooding  long 
in  melancholy  defect.  Men  of  the  east  shiftily  sidle 
amid  them,  polite  and  smiling,  uneasily  twisting,  or 
vague  and  impassive,  lost  in  some  inhuman  dream 
of  peace.  Men  of  the  south,  felinely  graceful, 
saunter  with  sombreros  stuck  on  the  backs  of  their 
heads,  a  flower  or  a  dagger  in  their  fingers,  a  flower 
or  a  cigarette  at  their  lips.  Men  of  the  west, 
hulking,  flamboyant,  generous,  cruel,  reckless,  ride 
whizzing  up  the  streets,  their  faces  hacked  by  the 
wind  to  the  resemblance  of  an  Indian's.  Through 
blood,  through  mire,  through  dust,  through  heat, 
through  lust,  through  fire,  through  defeat,  through 
treachery,  they  strive,  and  tear,  and  struggle,  like 
loosed  wild  beasts,  and  their  pantings  are  the  white 


48  THE  BUILDING  OF  CHICAGO 

hissing  bursts  of  steam  from  the  freight  locomotives 
that  crash  through  the  city  bringing  more  weight 
of  life  to  aid  them.  But  the  gloomy  arched  bas 
tions  stand  forever,  gazing  out  at  the  sad  wastes  of 
plain  and  water,  bearing  the  affront  of  the  winds 
that  hoot  and  shoot  and  howl  past  them;  the  north 
wind  trolling  his  skoal  to  his  dead  vikings ;  the  east 
wind  nasally  yelping  and  whining  for  his  fallen ;  the 
south  wind  mouthing  and  blubbering  over  her  lover; 
the  west  wind  roaring  like  a  giant  bear  that  is 
brought  to  bay  in  its  lair,  and  turns  at  last  on  its 
hunters,  preparing  for  its  death  onset  after  the  fire 
has  attacked  its  cavern  and  the  high  trees  have  fallen 
on  the  trail. 

December,  1914. 


DOWN  THE  MISSISSIPPI 
EMBARKATION 


Dull  masses  of  dense  green, 
The  forests  range  their  sombre  platforms; 
Between  them  silently,  like  a  spirit, 
The  river  finds  its  own  mysterious  path. 

Loosely  the  river  sways  out,  backward,  forward, 
Always  fretting  the  outer  side ; 
Shunning  the  invisible  focus  of  each  crescent, 
Seeking  to  spread  into  shining  loops  over  fields. 

Like  an  enormous  serpent,  dilating,  uncoiling, 
Displaying  a  broad  scaly  back  of  earth-smeared  gold ; 
Swaying  out  sinuously  between  the  dull  motionless 

forests, 
As  molten  metal  might  glide  down  the  lip  of  a  vase 

of  dark  bronze ; 

49 


50  EMBARKATION 

It  goes,  while  the  steamboat  drifting  out  upon  it, 

Seems  now  to  be  floating  not  only  outwards  but 
upwards ; 

In  the  flight  of  a  petal  detached  and  gradually  mov 
ing  skyward 

Above  the  pink  explosion  of  the  calyx  of  the  dawn. 


II 

HEAT 

As  if  the  sun  had  trodden  down  the  sky, 

Until  no  more  it  holds  living  air,  but  only  humid 

vapour, 

Heat  pressing  upon  earth  with  irresistible  langour, 
Turns  all  the  solid  forest  into  half-liquid  smudge. 

The  heavy  clouds  like  cargo-boats  strain  slowly 

against  its  current ; 
And  the  flickering  of  the  haze  is  like  the  thunder 

of  ten  thousand  paddles 
Against  the  heavy  wall  of   the  horizon,   pale-blue 

and  utterly  windless, 
Whereon  the  sun  hangs  motionless,  a  brassy  disc 

of  flame. 


Ill 

FULL  MOON 

Flinging  its  arc  of  silver  bubbles,  quickly  shifts  the 

moon 

From  side  to  side  of  us  as  we  go  down  its  path ; 
I  sit  on  the  deck  at  midnight  and  watch  it  slipping 

and  sliding, 
Under  my  tilted  chair,  like  a  thin  film  of  spilt  water. 

It  is  weaving  a  river  of  light  to  take  the  place  of 

this  river; 
A  river  where  we  shall  drift  all  night,  then  come  to 

rest  in  its  shallows; 
And  then  I   shall  wake  from  my  drowsiness  and 

look  down  from  some  dim  treetop 
Over  white  lakes  of  cotton,  like  moonfields  on  every 

side. 


IV 
THE  MOON'S  ORCHESTRA 

When  the  moon  lights  up 

Its  dull  red  campfire  through  the  trees; 

And  floats  out,  like  a  white  balloon, 

Into  the  blue  cup  of  the  night,  borne  by  a  casual 

breeze ; 

The  moon-orchestra  then  begins  to  stir. 
Jiggle  of  fiddles  commence  their  crazy  dance  in  the 

darkness. 
Crickets  churr 
Against   the   stark    reiteration   of    the   rusty    flutes 

which  frogs 

Puff  at  from  rotted  logs 
In  the  swamp. 

And  then  the  moon  begins  her  dance  of  frozen  pomp 
Over  the   lightly  quivering   floor   of   the   flat   and 

mournful  river. 

Her  white  feet  slightly  twist  and  swirl. 
She  is  a  mad  girl 
In  an  old  unlit  ball  room 
53 


54-  THE  MOON'S  ORCHESTRA 

Whose  walls,  half-guessed  at  through  the  gloom, 
Are  hung  with  the  rusty  crape  of  stark  black  cypress 
Which  show,  through  gaps  and  tatters,  red  stains 
half  hidden  away. 


THE  STEVEDORES 

Frieze   of   warm   bronze   that   glides   with    catlike 

movements 

Over  the  gangplank  poised  and  yet  awaiting, 
The  sinewy  thudding  rhythm  of  forty  shuffling  feet 
Falling  like  muffled  drumbeats  on  the  stillness. 
O  roll  the  cotton  down, 
Roll,  roll  the  cotton  down, 
From  the  further  side  of  Jordan, 
O  roll  the  cotton  down! 

And  the  river  waits, 

The  river  listens, 

Chuckling  little  banjo-notes  that  break  with  a  flop 

on  the  stillness; 
And  by  the  low  dark  shed   that  holds  the  heavy 

freights, 
Two  lonely  cypress  trees  stand  up  and  point  with 

stiffened  fingers" 
Far  southward  where  a  single  chimney  stands  out 

aloof  in  the  sky. 

55 


VI 
NIGHT  LANDING 

After  the  whistle's  roar  has  bellowed  and  shuddered, 
Shaking  the  sleeping  town  and  the  somnolent  river, 
The  deep  toned  floating  of  the  pilot's  bell 
Suddenly  warns  the  engines. 

They  stop  like  heart-beats  that  abruptly  stop, 
The  shore  glides  to  us,  in  a  wide  low  curve. 

And  then  —  supreme  revelation  of  the  river  — 
The  tackle  is  loosed  —  the  long  gangplank  swings 

outwards  — 
And  poised  at  the  end  of  it,  half-naked  beneath  the 

searchlight, 
A  blue-black  negro  with  gleaming  teeth  waits  for 

his  chance  to  leap. 


VII 

THE  SILENCE 

There  is  a  silence  I  carry  about  with  me  always; 
A  silence  perpetual,  for  it  is  self-created; 
A  silence  of  heat,  of  water,  of  unchecked  f ruitfulness 
Through  which  each  year  the  Heavy  harvests  bloom, 
and  burst  and  fall. 

Deep,  matted  green  silence  of  my  South, 
Often  within  the  push  and  scorn  of  great  cities, 
I  have  seen  that  mile-wide  waste  of  water  swaying 

out  to  you, 
And  on  its  current  glimmering,  I  am  going  to  the 

sea. 

There  is  a  silence  I  have  achieved:  I  have  walked 

beyond  its  threshold; 
I  know  it  is  without  horizons,  boundless,  fathomless, 

perfect. 

And  some  day  maybe,  far  away, 
I  will  curl  up  in  it  at  last  and  sleep  an  endless  sleep. 

Aug.  20-27,1915. 

57 


THE  OLD  SOUTH 

High  streaks  of  cottony-white  cloud  fill  the  sky. 
The  sun  slips  out  of  the  swamp  swinging  his  heavy- 
jewelled  mace  before  his  face  as  he  plays  with  the 
ripples  that  gurgle  under  the  rotting  cypress-knees. 
The  breeze  lifts  the  Spanish  moss  an  instant  and 
then  is  still.  The  sun  tosses  dew  over  the  ragged 
palmetto-leaves.  Aslant  on  a  gush  of  warm  breeze 
from  the  broiling  savannah,  the  song  of  a  mocking 
bird  floats,  a  fierce  scurry  of  notes,  through  the  air. 
The  sun  seems  to  be  kindling  a  flare  at  every  point 
of  the  horizon.  Grasshoppers,  crickets,  cicadas, 
everything  that  flits  or  skims,  tunes  and  trills  its 
shrill  violin.  Butterflies  flutter,  broken  motes  of 
colour;  hummingbird  and  dragon-fly  dart  green 
streaks  through  the  quivering  sky. 

The  river  rolls,  boiling  and  frothing  through  the 
lowlands.  It  is  weary  of  the  dull  stiff  mudbanks 
that  flake  away  before  it  in  sticky  chips;  weary  of 
the  turbid  masses  of  mud  that  it  must  scour  away 
to  make  its  path  down  to  the  sea.  It  gulps  and 
seethes  horribly  with  hungry  angry  lips,  fretting 
58 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  59 

first  one  bank,  then  another,  as  it  goes  sliding  and 
flopping  down  the  long  twisted  bends  in  the  fierce 
glare  of  morning,  deceived  no  longer  at  each  marsh- 
outlet  and  creek  and  bayou-mouth  into  thinking 
that  here  and  not  further  south  must  be  the  clear 
blue  water  it  seeks,  where  its  heavy  burden  may 
fall  in  peace.  The  river  goes  slapping,  lapping, 
rustling  the  canes  of  the  brake  and  the  motionless 
cypress-trees.  A  mocking-bird's  song  floats  down 
before  it  in  the  breeze. 

It  is  noon  and  the  carnival,  king  of  fools,  rules 
the  city.  A  beautiful  woman,  her  face  cold, 
haughty,  expressionless,  the  fire  in  her  eyes  half 
hidden,  goes  dancing  down  the  street  with  a  man 
whose  shape  is  like  an  ape.  Her  feet  stir  the  dust 
and  it  glitters  as  it  settles  in  streams  over  her 
shoulders,  like  slipping  confetti-showers.  She  is  a 
flo\ver  over-weary  of  the  sun.  Her  perfume  is  al 
most  gone,  and  the  fever  will  soon  snap  her  from 
her  stalk  and  toss  her  into  the  tomb.  Bass  drums 
toll  to  her  tripping  movement.  Her  skirts  sway. 
Amid  their  flickering  spangles  plays  a  satyr,  grin 
ning  at  the  multitude.  He  tears  off  her  frills  and 
flings  them  into  the"gutter  choked  with  filth.  Her 
half-naked  form  writhes  and  recoils  like  a  tree  be 
fore  the  storm. 


60  THE  OLD  SOUTH 

The  river  frowns  and  lours  for  a  heavy,  fuming, 
dull  blue  shower  races  gloomily  above  it  from  the 
northward.     As  it  goes  it  throws  out  at  the  trees 
tentacles  of  curled  coppery  lightning  that  enlace  and 
line  the  branches  and   send  them   crashing  down 
wards    with    full    powdery    explosions    of    muffled 
thunder.     The  river  lashes  itself  into  fits,  smashing 
the  bank  with  maddened  fists,  as  it  spins  the  quiver 
ing   steamer   around    and    nearly   sends    it    reeling 
aground.     It  growls,  it  howls,  it  shouts  its  terror 
of  the  forest  whose  broken  logs  topple  into  it  with 
a  great  splash,  swirling  and  whirling,  sucked  and 
crashing    in    sudden   black   somersaults,    while    the 
storm  roars  and  grumbles  away  with  spattered  hail- 
bullets  and  noise  of  affray.     Now  the  forest  groans 
and  drips  and  shrieks  with  rain  that  whistles  through 
its  branches.     Every  trickle,  every  pool,  every  creek 
is    full.     The    choked-up    torrent    overflows    and 
covers  miles  on  miles  of  furrows  and  woods  with 
endless  glaring  wastes  of  water.     A  gaunt  pine  falls 
with  a  sigh  and  a  splash. 

Slowly  the  river  resumes  its  patient  march 
through  the  lowlands.  Now  autumn  comes,  and 
afternoon  seems  throwing  grey  filaments  of  haze 
from  tree  to  tree.  The  old  plantation  sleeps,  for 
it  has  nothing  else  to  do.  Live-oaks  are  bowered 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  6 1 

about  it,  drooping  heavily,  weary  of  holding  up 
lusty  green  leaves  from  year  to  year.  In  graves 
under  the  live  oaks  many  are  sleeping.  They  have 
slipped  from  the  dream  of  life  to  the  dream  of  death. 
Perhaps  they  died  for  a  woman's  sake,  for  a  sigh,  a 
chance  word,  a  look,  a  letter,  for  nothing,  or  for  a 
song  that  men  sing.  What  matter?  Life  is  a 
dream ;  to-day,  to-morrow,  yesterday,  it  is  the  same. 
Along  old  floors  underneath  mouldering  doors  blow 
light  gusts  of  wind  stirring  the  dust.  A  mouse 
cheeps  in  a  corner.  Old  age  creeps  upon  us,  and 
life  is  grey.  The  old  plantation  moulders,  day  on 
day.  Soon  there  will  be  gaps  in  the  floors  and  the 
doors  will  swing  open  to  all.  Let  us  doze  on  the 
levee  and  feel  the  breeze  as  it  slips  down  the  river 
running  past  us. 

The  river  runs  very  fast,  for  it  is  bearing  sodden 
logs,  like  broken  lives.  The  sleepy  vultures  line 
the  grey  cottonwoods  that  tower  above  its  banks. 
To  them,  too,  life  is  a  dream.  This  morning  they 
tore  the  rank  carrion  of  a  dead  horse  that  floated 
dowrn  to  them.  Death  does  not  matter,  for  life  is 
defeat,  but  it  is  very  s\veet  to  have  plenty  to  eat 
and  to  sleep  in  the -sunlight.  Sleeping  and  waking 
and  sleeping  again,  that  is  how  one  learns  to  live 
without  pain.  Let  autumn  throw  thin  filaments 


62  THE  OLD  SOUTH 

of  regret  from  tree  to  tree.  Leaves  may  drop 
slowly,  but  the  live  oak  which  drops  not  its  leaves 
at  all  is  the  tree  that  is  planted  on  graves. 

Immortal  death  is  very  sweet 

When  brown  leaves  fill  the  dripping  gap 

Of  a  broken  vault,  and  the  frightened  feet 

Of  mice  pit-patter,   and   owls   flap 

Out  to  the  cool  moonshiny  night, 

Which    scatters    crushed    jewels    down    the    river; 

While  trees,  dumb-stricken  ghosts  in  flight, 

Chatter  and  shake  against  each  other. 

Tinkle  —  tinkle  —  drop ;  the  rain  that  filters 
through  the  leaky  roof.  Under  the  colonnade  where 
slaves  were  sold  and  bars  chinked  with  gold  runs  a 
tiny  stream  of  water  through  the  dust.  Was  that 
a  door  slamming  or  only  a  torn  hanging  that 
flapped  ?  Who  knows  ?  Perhaps  it  was  two  ghosts 
who  chattered  together  through  agued  lips  and 
rattling  teeth?  Not  a  dusty  bottle  in  the  bar. 
Marks  of  muddy  boots  on  the  smashed  marble. 
Wind  that  laughs  insanely  up  the  spiral  stairways, 
down  the  floorless  corridors.  Let  us  go,  for  rain 
is  dropping  and  the  roof  is  leaking,  and  I  seem  to 
hear  a  grey  frog  hopping  while  yonder  door  is 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  63 

creaking  as  if  someone  were  locked  behind  it  and 
were  whispering  to  get  out.  Let  us  go,  for  the 
ceiling  sags  and  will  soon  be  falling,  and  a  black 
spider  is  crawling  past  my  face,  and  rags  are  drift 
ing  about  on  the  floor.  Let  us  go,  for  a  crazy  deaf 
woman  with  a  bent  stick,  threatens  us  in  quavering 
voice,  declaring  she  will  strike  us  for  daring  to  enter 
her  palace.  Let  us  go  and  not  come  back  any  more. 
The  dead  are  best  dead  and  forgotten. 

The  river  rolls  through  fields  blossoming  with 
cotton  day  after  day.  In  a  crazy  cabin  someone 
is  crooning  a  song.  The  sun  lifts  his  long  jewelled 
mace  an  instant,  in  careless  lazy  fingers,  before  his 
face  and  lets  it  slip  away  again.  Aslant  on  a  chill 
scurry  of  rain  floats  a  mocking-bird's  jangled  song. 
It  dies  away  and  leaves  only  silence,  half-enclosing 
the  monotonous  drone  vof  a  sad  hymn  of  despair 
which  a  sleepy  negro  is  humming  to  himself  from 
nowhere. 

January,  1915. 


THE  GREAT  RIVER 

I 

Out  of  a  bank  of  blue-black  clouds  to  northward, 
Winding  between  two  high  red  bluffs,  a  river 
Spreads  out,  a  mile  across  from  bank  to  bank, 
Its  sheet  of  moving  water. 

It  has  been  here  when  into  silent  forests 
The  Indians  came  and  lit  their  council-fires, 
And   sought   new   hunting-grounds   and    sharpened 

arrows, 
Or  gathered  on  these  high  red  bluffs  to  pray; 

It  flowed  on  still  when  the  first  French  explorers. 
Marquette  the  priest  and  Joliet  the  bold, 
Paddled  upon  it  down  from  spring  to  winter; 
Seeking  its  mouth  in  the  Vermilion  Sea; 

It  stood  at  flood-tide  while  the  northern  armies 
Battered  with  shell  the  brown  clay  bluffs  of  Vicks- 
burg. 

64 


THE  GREAT  RIVER  65 

It  will  flow  still  when  the  last  white  man,  lonely, 
Gazes  upon  its  shrunken  altered  depths. 

It  goes,  it  flows, 

Mile-wide,  continually  curving,  steady,  silent. 
Taking  the  yellow-brown  streams  of  east  and  west 
Forever  in  its  splendid  onward  march. 


Thunder  has  worked  upon  these  cliffs, 

Thunder  has  carved  these  tall  red  sandstone  pillars, 

Has  split  the  solid  rock, 

Has  made  the  river  follow  where  it  will. 

Low  Indian  drums  of  thunder, 
And  the  howling  of  winds  in  the  autumn, 
Have  bowed  and  broken  the  forest 
Time  after  time; 

And  yet,  child  of  the  woods, 
The  river  goes,  carrying  away  to  southward, 
Where  far  away  the  blue  Gulf  will  receive  it, 
Its  burden  of  brown  earth. 

It  rises  out  of  thunder, 

It  sweeps  the  prairie  headlands  rolling  eastward, 


66  THE  GREAT  RIVER 

The  Missouri  whirls  into  it  its  treacherous  brown 

current, 
Afar  it  glides,  and  then  it  sinks  to  earth. 

Here  where  men's  dreams 

Of  empire  rotted,  washed  away, 

I  lie  at  ease  upon  the  bank 

And  watch  the  chips,  and  logs  and  bits  of  grass 

Go  southward,  fast  descending. 

Here  where  De  Soto's  heart 

Broke,    when    he    found    his    westward    pathway 

barred ; 

Here  where  La  Salle  planted  a  lillied  flag, 
And  dreamed  his  great  dream,  levelled  soon  to  dust: 

Here  where  my  fathers  crossed, 

Broad-shouldered  Tennesseans  bearing  in  them  the 

fibre 

To  carve  out  new  farms  from  the  valleys  westward, 
I  lie  at  ease  and  question  my  sad  heart. 

Has  the  land  failed, 

Or  will  it  rise  some  day  to  fresh  endeavor? 
Though  I,  the  last  one  of  my  name  and  race, 
Be  lost  across  the  seas? 


THE  GREAT  RIVER  67 

Still  flows  the  shining  river 
And  in  its  flowing,  thus  it  speaks  to  me ; 
"  Endure,  and  in  your  constant  daily  striving, 
Carve  out  somewhere  the  stuff  of  new-made  king 
doms, 

Though  no  man  heeds  them,  though  hopes  turn  to 
dust." 

Lift  a  last  council-fire 

Upon  this  ragged  bluff 

Two  hundred  feet  aloft, 

Rising  above  the  great  bends  to  the  southward. 

Lift  a  plumed  long  grey  smoke, 

And  summon   everywhere  men's  hearts   to   solemn 

council. 

Lift  a  last  council-fire, 
And  let  us  speak  at  last. 

We  who  are  broken,  lost, 

Still  carry  in  our  hearts  some  dream  of  finer  fibre, 
Still  clearly  shape  some  vision  of  new  flame, 
To  mock  this  sordid  and  slave-ridden  earth. 

And  we  will  gather 

When  the  great  council  calls  us  in  the  autumn, 


68  THE  GREAT  RIVER 

To  seek  out  once  again  some  far-off  kingdom 
Unconquered  yet,  yet  never  wholly  lost. 


II 

With  flashes  of  lightning  striding  above  its  surface, 
From  the  great  white  sagging  masses  of  cloud  that 

go  to  eastward, 
When  the  earth  holds   its  breath  from  a  day  of 

windless  heat, 
So  as  I  saw  it  once,  I  see  the  river  now. 

A  vast  brown  rounded  sweep  of  moving  water, 
Quitting  the  red  prairie  slopes  for  the  bottom  lands 

to  southward; 
Crumbling    the    clay    face   of    the    bank,    creating 

lagoons  and  islands, 
Where  the  lone  white  heron  plumes  herself  amid 

down-sagging  vines. 

Slowly  the  summer  wanes,  and  slowly  slackens  the 

river ; 
Logs  that  were  piled  up   in   spring  roost  on   the 

sandbars  at  autumn, 


THE  GREAT  RIVER  69 

Fever  has  passed  through  the  land,  the  leaf  turns 

yellow, 
Slowly  the  seasons  pass ; 


And  there  beyond  the  weedy  green  levee, 
Sweeping   in   curve   on   curve   against   the   tangled 

frieze  of  forest, 

The  river  goes,  when  haze  wraps  up  the  twilight, 
Towards  the  land  of  ghosts: 

Buffaloes,  snorting,  trample  their  way  to  its 

shallows  ; 

Flocks  of  wild  pigeon  darken  the  skies  at  sunset; 
Tangle  of  matted  vines  cast  into  it  red  berries, 
Forests  long  gone  writhe  still  gaunt  branches  at  the 

sky. 

And,  underneath  the  bluff, 

Where  the  banks  are  eaten  away, 

Trees  one  by  one  drop  slowly  into  its  current, 

Each  one  a  tilt,  a  reeling  collapse,  a  fall. 

Darker  and  still  more  dark 
The  years  become; 


70  THE  GREAT  RIVER 

Tightening  the  horizon  nightly,  cities  rise, 
Their  smoke  is  laced  together  by  banks  and  bridges 
of  steel. 

But  still  the  river  flows, 

And  still  it  bears  away  with  it 

Flowers  and  leaves  and  trees,  the  years,  the  hours, 

the  seasons, 
Towards  the  grey  sea  of  the  ghosts  to  southward. 

I  saw  in  midwinter  the  white  mists  arising, 

From  your  surface  still  shining,  still  moving  steadily 

on. 

I  saw  in  midwinter  the  wild  duck  at  daybreak 
Emerge  from  your  reeds; 

I  saw  in  midwinter  the  plumes  of  the  cypress 
Like  smoke   of   campfires   lost,   still   black   in   the 

daybreak. 

The  sweetgum  dropped  its  final  scarlet  star :  — 
From  sleepless  night  I  rose  and  faced  the  dawn. 

String  after  string  of  bubbles  and  of  foam, 
The  years  go  on,  and  we  who  go  with  them 
Are  driftwood,   floating  weeds, 
Borne  outwards  whither? 


THE  GREAT  RIVER  71 

Can  we  not  wait, 

Have  we  no  force  to  bear 

This  great  dull  stretch  of  earth  and  water  mingled 

Until  there  rise  for  us  the  floods  of  spring? 

Until  there  come  to  us 

The  great  release,  the  surging  melting  waters, 

That  send  us  speeding  to  our  goal 

With  doubly-hurrying  feet? 

Have  we  no  power  to  find 
Space  beyond  space  of  shining  perfect  freedom, 
Sweeping  us  on  beyond  flat  reefs  of  failure, 
Quickened  and  shining,  to  the  perfect  light? 


Ill 

Full  moon  at  midnight, 

Flinging  across  the  river  your  scarf  of  filmy  silver, 
Making  the  eddies  dance  beneath  your  feet, 
Bring  to  me  my  loved  one  in  the  night! 

Katydid,  cricket, 

Bullfrog  and  treefr-og  piping  in  loud  chorus, 

Whip-poor-will  and  baying  hound, 

Bring  to  me  my  loved  one  in  the  night! 


72  THE  GREAT  RIVER 

Owl  that  in  the  branches 
Screeches  loud,  then  in  the  hush       , 
Hoots  softly  to  the  solemn  moon, 
Bring  to  me  my  loved  one  in  the  night! 

Night  of  the  passionate  south, 
Crush  all  the  river  under  your  big  kisses, 
Make  her  to  sink  beneath  the  mad  embrace 
Of  the  white  blazing  moon! 

Where  is  the  wind  tonight? 
The  moon  glides  across  the  river, 
That  glitters  emptily  beneath  it 
Eddy  on  eddy,  mile  on  mile  of  light. 

I  have  cried  out  to  the  forest, 
And  not  a  leaf  answered  me; 
I  have  spoken  in  vain  to  the  long-leaved  feathery 

pine-trees, 
Where  is  the  wind  tonight? 

Steadily  out  of  the  gulf 
He  comes,  the  lover  from  the  darkness; 
Rocking  the  branches, 

Breaking  in  ripple  on  ripple  the  moonpath  up  to 
southward. 


THE  GREAT  RIVER  73 

Come,  rushing  breeze  of  the  darkness,  scented  with 

earth  and  her  flowers, 

Blot  out  quickly  for  me  that  low  hung  orange  star, 
Send  frightened  clouds  scurrying  suddenly 
Over  the  face  of  the  moon! 

On  the  verandah  rings  the  fiddle, 
'Twixt  the  columns  feet  are  glancing, 
Couples  glide  and  sway  and  turn 
Under  the  candles  tall  and  white. 

Spice-bush  odours  from  the  garden 
Drift  bet\veen  their  rounded  movements ; 
Swishing  skirts  and  flashing  smiles 
Twirl  and  vanish  to  the  shadows. 

Fireflies  signal  here  and  there; 

On  the  lawn  the  honey-locust 

Lifts  white  pinnacles  to  the  moonlight, 

And  the  bee-tree  shuts  her  flowers. 

When  the  dawn  will  rise  and  smite 
To  white  calm,  the  six  great  columns, 
Night  will  be  a  crushed  rose,  fading, 
And  the  memory  of  a  kiss. 


74  THE  GREAT  RIVER 

A  steamboat  steadily  weaves 
From  point  to  point  in  darkness; 
Churning  up  the  moonlight  in  between 
To  bubbles  and  streaks  of  foam. 


Into   the  shadowy   banks   where    racing   flows   the 

current, 

And  out  again  across  the  glittering  shallows, 
Dotted  with  bubbling  eddies  where  the  sand-shoal 

breaks  away 
It  weaves  its  steady  path; 


The  steamboat  glows  and  burns, 

Shooting  out  billowy  smoke  and  sparks  from  her 

tall  funnels : 

In  the  glare  of  her  deck-furnaces 
Bronze  crouching  shapes  are  seen; 


And  weaving  across,  she  suddenly  toots  one  long 

blast; 

Heavily  it  reverberates  across  the  sleeping  river. 
For  she  has  seen  two  miles  across  the  moonpath, 
The  low  lights  of  a  landing  town  to  southward. 


THE  GREAT  RIVER  75 

IV 

No  longer  free,  but  parcelled  out  and  shred, 
Amid  swamp  and  bayou,  chute,  lagoon  and  cane- 
brake, 

No  longer  wide,  a  slackened  swirling  river 
Above  its  clay-filled  banks  goes  dragging  past. 

No  longer  free,  but  fettered  in  its  movement, 

No  longer  wild,  but  bordered  to  the  hem 

With  fields  of  sugar,  fields  of  rice,  the  smooth  green 

leaves  of  cotton, 
It  finds  in  slackening  curves  its  weary  way; 

Too  wild  it  was  ever  to  reach  the  sea ; 
Too  vast  it  was  to  build  a  single  outlet. 
It  is  lost  in  grey  morasses 
Where  rise  the  cypress-trees ; 

The  sweetbay  with  its  berries  of  bright  red, 
The  towering  long  leafed  pine  receives  its  waters. 
It  came  from  forests  and  it  goes  to  forests; 
Scarce  half  its  waters  find  their  goal  at  last. 

We  have  not  loved  enough, 

Nothing  has  taught  our  hearts  to  love  and  suffer, 


76  THE  GREAT  RIVER 

Ere  our  desires  were  shaped 
We  shunned  the  patient  earth. 

We  builded  long  ago 

White  houses  with  tall  columns,  splashed  in  shadows. 
The  spider  weaves  her  web  amid  their  splendours, 
The  mice  creep  heedless  over  their  gaping  floors. 

Now  we  build  factories 

For  the  pleasures  that  too  soon 

Will  turn  to  bitterness  upon  our  lips. 

We  build  them,  till  the  air  is  grimed  with  dust; 

And  far  away  their  fires 
Die  in  the  tragic  dawn  of  some  tomorrow 
Which  we  will  find  too  early  or  too  late, 
Which  we  had  better  pray  not  come  at  all. 

River  that  goes  to  death, 
Deep  mournful  sluggish  river, 
Draping  in  crape  of  Spanish  moss 
Your  weedy  green  bayous ; 

You  hide  yourself  in  haze; 

The  wild  duck  from  the  canebrake  rises  Crying, 


THE  GREAT  RIVER  77 

The  hummingbird  hangs  quivering  in  the  heat, 
Through   the    long   autumn,    squirrels    mount    the 
trees ; 

The  pawpaw  falls  at  dusk; 
Nuts  in  the  foliage  gleam,  ungathered  yet. 
The  fox-grape  and  the  smilax  coil  together, 
The  wax-white  mistletoe  mounts  the  highest 
boughs ; 

And  all  in  vain  you  spread 

Lagoon  beyond  lagoon,  low  island  after  island. 
The  sea  will  take  you  quietly  at  last, 
Whether  you  come  there  willingly  or  not. 

It  winds  out  oceanward; 

The  brown  stain  of  the  earth  goes  mile  on  mile 

unfading, 

White  sandbars  are  piled  high  with  bits  of  trees, 
The   current   ploughs  great  channels  through   the 

earth. 

Afar  off  over  shallows 

A  lonely  gull  goes  seeking  for  his  kind. 

Green-brown,    blue-green,    the   weedy   smouldering 

sea 
Gnaws  with  its  short  sharp  bursts  upon  the  shore. 


78  THE  GREAT  RIVER 

And  far  away  to  north 

Where  the  birch-forests  glimmer  by  blue  lakes, 
On  high  plateaus,  where  snow  is  late  in  dying, 
The  shining  river  spreads  anew  its  path. 

Born  of  the  forest  and  the  cloud, 
It  moves  through  a  mile  on  mile  of  fertile  valley; 
In  deathless  never-tiring  strength  it  shapes 
All  life  within  its  bed,  from  birth  to  death. 

July,    1920. 


GETTYSBURG 

I 

Wild  flowers  bloom  at  Gettysburg; 

Violets  in  April  line  the  hills; 

In  May  the  dogwood  shakes  out  starry7  branches, 

The  trees  put  forth  their  young  green  daring  leaves. 

Wild  flowers  bloom  at  Gettysburg; 
Wild  roses  in  fence-corners  burst  to  bloom. 
Summer  has  come  to  Gettysburg, 
Summer  has  come  at  last. 

The  fields  with  rhododendron 
Pale-pink  aflame  on  dark  green  branches  are:  — 
Solomon's  seal  and  clover  riot  in  pasturelands, 
In  the  lush  grasses,  brown  grasshoppers  churr. 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  south, 
Sulphurous  with  grey  coils  of  smoke,  __ 
Thunder  clouds  rise  menacing, 
Burst  on  the  summer,  sweep  her  riot  away. 
79 


80  GETTYSBURG 

Seventy-three  thousand  men  march  out: 

For  sixty  miles  the  hills 

Along  the  dark  valley  of  the  Cumberland 

Glow  with  bright  campfires  to  the  startled  night. 

Stuart  with  his  grey  cavalry 

Ten  thousand  strong,  sweeps  east  to  Harrisburg; 

Meade,  hurriedly  summoned  to  command, 

With  his  blue  files  plods  steadily,  slowly  northward. 


II 

Wild  flowers  bloom  at  Gettysburg; 

Out  of  the  darkness  of  the  night  two  armies  come 

together  ; 
As  two  great  clouds,  charged  deep  with  summer 

rain, 
Might  meet  amid  the  hills. 

In  the  long  rolling  country 

Covered  with  rounded  spurs,  divided  by  rich 

valleys, 

At  early  dawn  the  forces  of  the  South 
Pour  from  the  mountains  downward  to  the  plain. 


GETTYSBURG  8 1 

The  cavalry  reel  and  crash: 

And  now  there  opens  wide  the  dawn  of  battle :  — 
Under  the  July  sun,  just  crawling  up  the  sky, 
Grey  puffs  from  batteries  flash. 

Backward  the  blue-clad  army  rolls  from  Gettysburg 

to  southward, 

Till  at  the  last  they  turn  and  hold  in  dense  array, 
A    tree-clad    rocky    height,    a    fish-hook   spur    bent 

backwards, 
With  a  low  wall  for  breastwork:  Cemetery  Ridge. 

The  west  burns  up  to  red. 
The  katydids  and  frogs  begin  their  chorus. 
Soldiers  light  campfires,  smoke  and  talk; 
One  or  two  hold  love-letters  in  their  hands. 


Ill 

Darkness  and  brooding  clouds 
In  the  closed  tent  of  Lee; 
And  the  cry  of  the  South  goes  out 
For  victory  at  last. 

The  cry  of  the  South  ascends :  — 
A  long  great  bodiless  cry, 


82  GETTYSBURG 

That  now  has  come  the  hour  by  fate  appointed, 
The  moment  to  risk  all. 


Vicksburg  holds  still  the  river  safe  to  south; 

But  all  the  ports  are  rotting  now  and  idle, 

And  the  flower  of  the  Southern  blood,  drawn  from 

the  fields  left  fallow, 
Stands  waiting  underneath  Lee's  hand. 

Lee  prays  in  his  tent  at  midnight: 
And  in  the  White  House,  Abraham  Lincoln  prays. 
Each  offering  to  some  shaping  force  unseen, 
The  terrible  Cause  they  bear. 

And  in  the  silence  of  night 

The  moon  looks  down  on  lines  of  troops  advancing ; 

Gleaming  on  file  on  file  of  bayonets, 

Lighting  up  line  on  line  of  grim,  unshaven  faces. 


IV 

Wild  flowers  bloom  at  Gettysburg, 
The  dark  Round  Tops  to  south  are  thick  with  bushy 
sprays; 


GETTYSBURG  83 

To  north,  Gulp's  Hill  above  its  brook-filled  valley 
Is  gorgeous  with  new  bloom: — 

It  is  the  second  day;  Lee  hammers  at  the  flanks. 
Longstreet,  to  south,  swarms  into  Devil's  Den. 
In  the  .dense  scrub  men,  panting,  fling  themselves; 
Fighting  with  granite  boulders,  hand  to  hand. 

Tree-branches  tossed  and  torn 
Flicker  above  a  scene  of  screaming  faces  — 
Men  clash  and  grapple  with  their  naked  hands  — 
Or  lie  upon  the  ground  with  bloody  lips. 

And  three  miles  to  the  north, 

Ewell,    with    Louisiana    troops,    launches    a    mad 

charge, 

Straight  out  from  Gettysburg 
Up  the  stiff  slopes  and  spurs  of  woodgrown  grey 

Gulp's  Hill. 

Cannon  on  cannon  wakes, 
The  brooding  July  heat 
Is  rent  by  lurid  flashes; 
Victory  comes  at  last. 


84  GETTYSBURG 

V 

Storms  of  the  north  and  south, 
Rise  in  full  strength  on  Gettysburg. 
Leap  out,  grey  clouds,  blue  clouds, 
Rend  this  still  heat  away! 

Winds  of  the  west  and  east, 

Prepare  yourselves,  for  once  more  wakes  the  battle, 

And  in  the  brain  of  Lee 

Fierce  hope  exalts  her  sword. 

Sunrise   for   the   third   time   touches   the   peaks   to 

westward, 
The  hour  has  come,  the  day  is  here,  the  dial  of 

time  moves  fast. 

Facing  each  other  a  mile  apart,  the  armies  wait  the 

onset. 
Between   them   rolls  the  valley  with   its  trampled 

fields  outspread. 

From  far  away  the  thunders  ride  outstreaming ; 
Muttering  upon  the  horizon,  they  make  their  deadly 
way. 


GETTYSBURG  85 

Gather,  you  masses  of  grey,  for  one  last  fierce  up- 
springing, 

Waken,  you  guns  of  the  South,  and  shape  for  them 
a  passage. 

Flash  upon  flash  from  brazen  lips  of  flame  — 
Two  hundred  cannon  darken  with  smoke  the  fields. 


The  noon  is  past  and  now  wanes  afternoon 
Behind  the  grim  line  of  their  guns,  Pickett's  men 
wait  their  hour. 

The  thunder  clouds  have  come  together, 
A  mile  divides  their  crests;  now  the  south  breaks 
away! 

Out  of  their  rest  they  rise, 
Grey  rank  piled  on  grey  rank, 
Hurtling  up  to  the  ridge 
Into  the  throats  of  the  guns, 
Charging  in  stiff-held  files 
Bent  low  to  face  their  task, 
Leaping  across  the  fields 
For  a  mile,  into  certain  death. 


86  GETTYSBURG 

Through  ragged  grey  wisps  of  smoke  they  stumble, 

shift  and  waver, 
Between  them  the  lightning  flashes  and  the  terrible 

peals  of  thunder 
Roar  as  the  sky  grows  darker  beneath  the  storm's 

great  weight. 
In  a  leaden  pall  lit  with  lurid  flashes,  the  armies 

come  to  death. 

Bullets  sing,  flicking  the  dust  to  puffs  of  angry 
brown. 

Volley  on  volley  crackles,  amid  them  the  cannon- 
flash 

Breaks  and  the  line  of  the  faces  streams  out  from 
the  sudden  dark, 

Proud  white  ashen  faces,  bearing  the  Cross  of  the 
South. 

Half  of  their  way  they  have  come,  and  still  one  third 

are  standing 
Covered  in  blood  they  go  onward,  grey  masses  here 

and  there. 

And,  along  the  stone-piled  ridge, 
Under  the  throats  of  their  guns, 


GETTYSBURG  87 

The  Northern  troops,  lying  low, 
Wait  with  the  bayonet. 

Slashing  with  sabre  and  steel,  they  meet  in  melee 

and  rally, 
Amid  the  clouds  of  smoke  blown  back  by  a  sudden 

shift  of  wind. 
Under  a  gap  in  the  wall,  by  a  low  hung  clump  of 

trees, 

They  make  the  ground  red  with  slaughter; 
Screams,  yells,  shots,  oaths  and  groans  fill  the  hot 

quivering  air. 


VI 

Wild  flowers  bloom  at  Gettysburg 

Between    the   young    green   wheat    and    the    dense 

scrubby  trees. 

Wounded  men,  writhing  in  their  death-agony, 
Clutch  at  them  in  the  grass. 

Dying   men   stain   their    petals   with    bubbles    and 

streaks  of  blood, 
The  cause  of  the  South  is  broken,  the  grey  ranks 

melted  away, 


88  GETTYSBURG 

Barely  one-quarter  come  staggering  back  from  that 

charge, 
The  rest  lie  silent,  face-downwards  in  the  grass. 

Darkness  and  heavy  rain; 
And  in  the  night 
The  tramp  of  a  beaten  army 
Is  heard  upon  the  roads, 
Like  a  low  dirge  of  doom. 

Lee  silently  rides  amid  them. 

His  head   is   bowed,   his   face   looks   haggard   and 

drawn. 

The  flame  of  his  hope  reared  high,  now  flickers  out : 
And  southward  on  that  day  brown  Vicksburg  falls. 

Darkness  and  heavy  rain 
And  the  dead  men  lying  in  darkness; 
The  weight  of  a  waning  cause 
Drags  Lee's  soul  down  to  earth. 

VII 

Fifty  and  seven  years  ago :  — 
And  now  their  graves  lie  still, 
Covered  with  flowers  every  spring. 
Here  in  this  country's  heart. 


GETTYSBURG  89 

But  we  who  hold  the  land, 
Think  of  them  only  now  by  fits  and  starts :  — 
We  are  too  busy  with  new  conquests  every  day, 
To  think  of  those  grey  shapes  that  charged  to  death. 

But  sometimes,  a  tall  shadow 

Gets  between  us  and  the  sunlight; 

Sometimes  we  seem  to  hear 

A  hoarse  voice  shouting  behind  us  in  command. 

Sometimes  a  broken  sword  of  cloud 
Suddenly  puts  out  the  light  for  us, 
Sometimes  we  seem  to  hear 
Dark  thunders  muttering,  vague  and  far  away. 

July -August,  1920. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SOUTH 

On  a  catafalque,  draped  in  black,  under  bronze 
cannon,  forlorn  and  white,  rigid  in  death,  the 
corpse  of  the  South  is  borne  to  its  tomb.  With 
muffled  drums,  with  arms  reversed,  the  veterans 
gather  gaunt  and  grey,  and  their  close-furled  flags, 
'neath  the  sun's  pale  flash,  droop  in  weary  folds 
to-day. 

Eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-one,  and  the  sun 
shines  gaily.  The  new  levies  of  the  North  are 
swarming  out  from  Washington,  southwestward,  to 
Bull  Run.  Listen  to  the  drum  as  it  rumble- 
bumbles  through  the  woods,  windless  but  cool,  in 
the  heat  of  July.  Look  at  the  clean  blue  uniforms, 
the  epaulets,  the  brass  buttons,  the  sashes  with  their 
thick  gold  braid.  Let's  go  and  picnic  in  the  woods 
—  who's  afraid  ?  "  Our  boys  will  shoot  and  the 
rebels  will  scoot,  and  day  after  to-morrow  John 
Brown's  body  will  be  marching  into  Richmond. 
Then  we'll  hang  Jeff  Davies  from  a  sour  apple  tree, 
as  we  go  marching  on."  The  sun  flashes,  but  the 
leaves  are  silent.  Suddenly  the  yell  of  a  panther 
cuts  the  air,  and  from  everywhere  bursts  out  at  once 
90 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SOUTH  91 

grey  smoke  and  the  drumming  roll  of  a  volley. 
Little  grey  figures  are  stealing  out  of  the  woods. 
They  rise  and  shoot,  disappear  into  the  undergrowth, 
rise  and  shoot  again,  near  and  more  near.  And  still 
rises  more  menacing  that  long  scream  of  a  cheer 
and  a  red  banner,  with  long  blue  bars,  studded  writh 
stars,  bursts  out  of  the  woods  and  flickers  through 

the    smoke    upon    the    left.     "  Fire  —  fire for 

God's  sake  fire  —  what  are  you  holding  that  gun 
for !  Where  —  there  —  everywhere  —  the  yell  is 
on  both  sides  of  us  —  fire  up  in  the  air!  Back  — 
back  —  they  are  on  our  flank  —  make  tracks  for 
Washington  —  Father  Abe  is  there  —  he  will  save 
us !  Hoof-beats  —  cavalry  —  the  cavalry  are  in 
pursuit  —  every  man  for  himself  —  why  don't  they 
fall  down  when  we  shoot  —  May  God  curse  that 
sun  that  glared  in  our  faces  —  may  the  devil  take 
this  gun,  it's  too  heavy  to  earn'.  Back  —  back  — 
has  any  one  thought  of  the  flag  —  no,  it's  gone  with 
the  rest.  Back  —  back  to  Washington !  " 

On  a  catafalque,  draped  in  black,  under  bronze 
cannon,  forlorn  and  white,  rigid  in  death,  the  corpse 
of  the  South  is  borne  to  its  tomb.  With  a  low  roll 
of  drums  and  the  dull  tramp  of  feet,  the  procession 
starts,  and  it  dribbles  slowly  down  the  long  street, 
followed  bv  sobs  from  broken  hearts. 


92  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SOUTH 

Eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-two,  and  the  new 
President  of  the  Confederate  States  is  present  at  a 
grand  review  of  his  army.  From  a  fair  knoll  over 
looking  the  scene,  he  sees  afar  the  green  fields, 
covered  with  long  grey  files  of  troops,  a  band  of 
brothers  assembled  to  defend  the  ascendant  star  of 
the  South.  Here  are  the  cavalry  of  Virginia,  men 
on  blooded  horses,  which  their  orderlies  have  curried 
and  groomed  till  they  shine  like  silver.  These  are 
the  men  ready  to  ride  for  a  jest  into  the  cannon's 
mouth.  Their  sabres  clink,  and  their  horses  curvet 
and  prance  and  seem  to  curtsey  as  they  dance  in  the 
sunlight.  Here  is  the  light  artillery  of  Louisiana 
—  the  swamp-tigers,  dark  men,  sitting  erect  on  the 
caissons,  rumbling  at  a  gallop  over  the  field.  Here 
are  the  tall  hunters  from  Tennessee  and  Arkansas, 
sallow,  rangy  men  able  to  draw  a  bead  on  a  squir 
rel's  eye  at  thirty  paces.  Here  comes,  thundering 
and  straining  at  the  traces,  the  heavy  artillery  of 
South  Carolina,  the  men  who  battered  Fort  Sumter 
to  pieces.  They  are  singing  of  Charleston  girls  and 
the  dust  rises  and  curls  about  their  wheels.  The 
whole  earth  quivers  and  reels,  and  the  President 
bows  and  smiles.  The  grey  files  of  hoarsely  singing 
men,  swinging  at  a  rapid  pace  out  of  the  dust,  seem 
like  endless  phantoms,  turning  and  returning  again. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SOUTH  93 

The  President  rides  forward  and  the  movement  of 
the  troops  is  stopped.  "  You  are  the  seed-corn  of 
the  Confederacy,"  he  says,  "  which  we  will  plant  in 
the  North."  A  roar  breaks  forth  and  is  blent  with 
the  baggage-wagons  at  the  ends  of  the  horizon. 
The  whole  army  gives  its  assent. 

On  a  catafalque,  draped  in  black,  under  bronze 
cannon,  forlorn  and  white,  rigid  in  death,  the  corpse 
of  the  South  is  borne  to  its  tomb.  Boom!  What 
was  that?  A  far-off  cannon.  Boom!  —  they  have 
reached  the  cemetery  and  the  artillery  is  firing  the 
last  salute  while  the  coffin  draped  in  its  single  great 
flag  is  slowly  lowered  to  the  grave.  The  drooping 
banners,  with  their  staffs  shrouded  in  crape,  are  like 
great  top-heavy  flowers  falling  into  the  black  hole 
in  the  ground.  Boom !  —  old  men  used  to  battle 
hear  that  sound  and  they  clutch  with  long  bony 
hands  their  crutches,  while  the  tears  start.  Boom! 
It  is  almost  dark. 

Eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-three  and  Lee  has 
a  new  plan.  Grant  is  holding  Vicksburg  in  a  ring 
of  fire  and  steel  and  the  South  is  beginning  to  feel 
the  pinch.  The  Mississippi  is  almost  gone.  Un 
less  England  comes  soon  to  our  help,  w^e  cannot  fight 
on.  Forward  then,  the  South!  In  one  last  des 
perate  effort,  sweep  up  through  Pennsylvania  and 


94  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SOUTH 

outflank  the  Capitol!  Every  night,  men  going  to 
bed  see  afar  the  camp-fires  of  innumerable  invad 
ing  armies,  like  fireflies  in  the  hills.  Philadelphia 
fills  with  panic  and  the  tramp  of  hastily  drilling 
men.  But  on  Seminary  Ridge,  before  Gettysburg, 
Lee  comes  to  a  halt.  There  from  Little  Round 
Top  to  the  Bloody  Angle,  stand  the  armies  of 
Meade.  Speak,  guns!  One  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  cannon  fill  the  valley  for  three  hours  with 
swirling  drifts  of  death.  Now,  then,  Pickett, 
Longstreet,  Heth!  Forward  —  charge!  Forward 
—  charge !  With  bands  playing  and  colours  flying, 
dyeing  the  grass  with  their  blood.  "  O,  I'll  live  and 
die  for  Dixie  —  Hooray  —  Hooray — I'll  live  and 
die  "  —  the  wind  bears  the  clamour  away. 

Dust  that  rises  —  dust  that  settles  —  and  the  rust 
of  ancient  years.  ... 

On  a  catafalque  draped  in  black,  under  bronze 
cannon,  forlorn  and  white,  rigid  in  death,  the  corpse 
of  the  South  is  borne  to  its  tomb. 

1916. 


THE  GRAND  CANYON  OF  THE 
COLORADO 

I 

I  have  seen  that  which  is  mysterious, 
Aloof,  divided,  silent; 
Something  not  of  this  earth. 

Suddenly  the  endless  dark  green  piney  uplands 
Stopped. 

Yellow,    red,   grey-green,   purple-black   chasms   fell 
swiftly  below  each  other. 

On  the  other  side 

Strong-built,  arose 

Towers  whose  durable  terraces  were  hammered  from 

red  sandstone, 
Purple  granite,  and  gold. 

Beyond 

A  golden  wall. 

Aloof,  inscrutable. 

95 


96       GRAND  CANYON  OF  THE  COLORADO 

It  was  hidden 

Behind  layers  of  white  silence. 
No  voice  might  reach  it ; 
It  was  not  of  this  earth. 


II 

When  the  free  thunder-spirit 

Had  built  and  carved  these  terraced  walls, 

Completing  his  task  of  ages ; 

He  wrote  upon  them 

In  dark  invisible  words, 

"  It  is  finished." 

Silent  and  windless, 

The  forever  completed 

Is  never  broken  but  by  clouds. 

Sometimes  dark  eagles  slow-sailing 

Rise  out  of  it,  like  spirits, 

Wheeling  away. 

Now  in  the  steady  glare, 
Some  will  moves  darkly, 
Driving  the  clouds,  piling  them, 
Shaping  masses  of  shadow 


GRAND  CANYON  OF  THE  COLORADO        97 

That  move  slowly  forward 
Over  the  array  of  towers. 

Yet  still  behind  them, 

Unscarred,  unaltered, 

The  work  stands  finished. 

Without  a  cry  of  protest,  for  protest  is  uncomple- 

tion, 
Moulded  and  fashioned  forever  in  durable  ageless 

stone, 

And  on  ever}'  surface  is  written 
In  strong  invisible  words: 
"  It  is  finished." 


Ill 

Should  I  by  chance  deserve  some  last  reward  from 

earth, — 

The  rewards  of  earth  are  usually  unwholesome; — 
One  single  thing  I  would  ask  for, 
Burn  my  body  here. 

Kindle  the  pyre 

Upon  this  jutting  point 

Dry  aromatic  juniper, 


98   GRAND  CANYON  OF  THE  COLORADO 

Lean  flame,  blue  smoke, 
Ashes  and  dust. 

The  winds  would  drift  the  ash 
Outwards  across  the  canyon ; 
To  the  rose-purple  rim  of  the  desert 
Beyond  the  red-barred  towers. 

The  rabbits  in  the  morning 

Would  come  and  snuff  at  the  embers, 

While  the  chasm  rekindling, 

Would  build  up  its  silent  poem  of  colour  to  the  sun. 


IV 

Shadows  of  clouds 
March  across  the  canyon, 
Shadows  of  blue  hands  passing 
Over  a  curtain  of  flame. 

Clutching,  staggering,  upstriking, 

Darting  in  blue-black  fury, 

To  where  the  pinnacles,  green  and  orange, 

Await. 


GRAND  CANYON  OF  THE  COLORADO        99 

The  winds  are  battling  and  striving  to  break  them ; 
Thin  lightnings  spit  and  flicker, 
The  peaks  seem  a  dance  of  scarlet  demons 
Flitting  amid  the  shadows. 

Grey  rain-curtains  wave  afar  off 
Wisps  of  vapour  curl  and  vanish: 
The  sun  throws  soft  shafts  of  golden  light 
Over  rose-buttressed  palisades. 

Now  the  clouds  are  a  lazy  procession: 
Blue  balloons  bobbing  solemnly 
Over  black-dappled  walls: 

Where  rise  sharp-fretted,  golden-roofed  cathedrals 
Exultantly,  and  split  the  sky  with  light. 

August,  1915. 


ARIZONA  POEMS 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

By  the  well  in  the  desert  I  sat  for  long, 

And   watched   the   magpies,    with    black-and-white 

checkered  bodies, 

Leaping  from  twig  to  twig  of  the  greasewood, 
To  look  at  the  water  spilled  on  the  ground 
By  the  herder  who  went  by  with  three  lean  cattle, 
Climbing  out  of  the  blue-and-gold  silence  of  morn 
ing. 
There   was    the    shadow    well    with    stones   piled 

about  it, 

The  coarse  tattered  rope,  the  battered  tin  bucket 
And  the  nose  of  my  pony  cropping  thin  grass  not 

far  off, 

The  grey  sagebrush  and  silence. 
At  the  horizon 
The  heat  rose  and  fell, 
Sharp  flickering  arpeggios; 
The  wind  started  somewhere, 
100 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT  IOI 

Then  stopped. 

The  blue  smoke  of  my  cigarette, 

Wavered  and  failed. 

I  was  drowsing. 

And  it  seemed  to  me  in  my  dream 

That  I  was  riding 

To  a  low  brown  cluster  of  squat  adobe  houses 

Under  the  eaves  of  a  red  barren  mesa, 

Where  the  track  of  a  wagon  trail  paused,  dipped, 

and  vanished 

By  a  corral  of  rough  plastered  stone: 
And  I  sawr  in  my  dream, 
Looking  down  at  the  houses, 
An  Indian  with  a  red  sash,  flannel  shirt  and  blue 

trousers, 

And  a  red  band  about  his  coarse  black  hair. 
Eyes  dark  as  an  antelope's 
Looked  up  at  me: 
Sheep  were  feeding  about  him. 
And  I  said  to  him  "  Where  do  you  come  from?  " 
And  he  replied 

"  From  Nazareth,  beyond  the  desert, 
In  Galilee." 


II 

MEXICAN  QUARTER 

By  an  alley  lined  with  tumble-down  shacks, 

And  street-lamps  askew,  half-sputtering, 

Feebly  glimmering  on  gutters  choked  with  filth  and 

dogs 

Scratching  their  mangy  backs: 
Half-naked  children  are  running  about, 
Women  puff  cigarettes  in  black  doorways, 
Crickets  are  crying. 
Men  slouch  sullenly 
Into  the  shadows: 
Behind  a  hedge  of  cactus, 
The  smell  of  a  dead  horse 
Mingles  with  the  smell  of  tortillas  frying. 

And  a  girl  in  a  black  lace  shawl 

Sits   in   a   rickety  chair  by   the  square   of   an  un- 

glazed  window, 

And  sees  the  explosion  of  the  stars 
102 


MEXICAN  QUARTER  103 

Softly  poised  on  a  velvet  sky. 

And  she  is  humming  to  herself :  — 

"  Stars,  if  I  could  reach  you, 

(You  are  so  very  clear  that  it  seems  as  if  I  could 

reach  you) 

I  would  give  you  all  to  the  Madonna's  image, 
On  the  grey-plastered  altar  behind  the  paper  flowers, 
So  that  Juan  would  come  back  to  me, 
And  we  could  live  again  those  lazy  burning  hours, 
Forgetting  the  tap  of  my  fan  and  my  sharp  words. 
And  I  would  only  keep  four  of  you, 
Those  two  blue-white  ones  overhead, 
To  hang  in  my  ears ; 
And  those  two  orange  ones  yonder, 
To  fasten  on  my  shoe-buckles." 


A  little  further  along  the  street 

A  man  sits  stringing  a  brown  guitar. 

The  smoke  of  his  cigarette  curls  'round  his  head, 

And  he  too  is  humming,  but  other  words: 

"Think  not  that  at  your  window  I  wait; 

New  love  is  better,  the  old  is  turned  to  hate. 

Fate!     Fate!     All  things  pass  away; 

Life  is  forever,  youth  is  for  a  day. 

Love  again  if  you  may 


104  MEXICAN  QUARTER 

?     Before  the  stars  are  blown  out  of  the  sky, 
j^And  the  crickets  die! 
i>r  Babylon  and  Samarkand 

mud  walls  in  a  waste  of  sand." 


Ill 

CLIFF-DWELLING 

The  canyon  is  choked  with  stones  and  undergrowth ; 
The  heat  that  falls  from  the  sky 
Beats  at  the  walls,  slides,  and  reverberates 
Do\vn  in  a  wave  of  grey  dust  and  white  fire : 
Stinging  the  mouth  and  eyes. 


The  ponies  struggle  and  scramble, 
Half  way  up,  along  the  canyon  wall ; 
Their  listless  riders  seldom  lift 
A  weary  hand  to  guide  their  feet; 
Stones  are  loosened  and  clatter 
Down  to  the  sunbaked  depths. 


Nothing  has  ever  lived  here, 
Nothing  could  ever  live  here; 
Two  hawks,  screaming  and  wheeling, 
Rouse  the  eyes  to  look  aloft. 
105 


106  CLIFF-DWELLING 

Boldly  poised  in  a  shelf  of  the  stone, 
Tiny  walls  peer  down  on  us ; 
Towers  with  little  square  windows. 

When  we  plod  up  to  them, 

And  dismounting,  fasten  our  horses; 

Suddenly  a  blue-grey  flock  of  doves, 

Burst  in  a  flutter  of  wings  from  the  shadows. 

Shards  of  pots  and  shreds  of  straw, 

Empty  brush-roofed  rooms  in  darkness; 

And  the  sound  of  water  tinkling, 

A  clock  that  ticks  the  centuries  off  to  silence. 


IV 
THE  WINDMILLS 

The  windmills,  like  great  sunflowers  of  steel, 
Lift  themselves  proudly  over  the  straggling  houses; 
And  at  their  feet  the  deep  blue-green  alfalfa 
Cuts  the  desert  like  the  stroke  of  a  sword. 

Yellow  melon  flowers 

Crawl  beneath  the  withered  peach-trees; 

A  date-palm  throws  its  heavy  fronds  of  steel 

Against  the  scoured  metallic  sky. 

The  houses,  double-roofed  for  coolness, 

Cower  amid  the  manzanita  scrub. 

A  man  with  jingling  spurs 

Walks  heavily  out  of  a  vine-bowered  doorway, 

Mounts  his  pony,  rides  away. 

The  windmills  stare  at  the  sun. 
The  yellow  earth  cracks  and  blisters. 
Everything  is  still. 

107 


108  THE  WINDMILLS 

In  the  afternoon 

The  wind  takes  dry  waves  of  heat  and  tosses  them 
Mingled  with  dust,  up  and  down  the  streets, 
Against  the  belfry  with  its  green  bells: 

And,  after  sunset,  when  the  sky 

Becomes  a  green  and  orange  fan, 

The  windmills,  like  great  sunflowers  on  dried  stalks, 

Stare  hard  at  the  sun  they  cannot  follow. 

Turning,  turning,  forever  turning 

In  the  chill  night-wind  that  sweeps  over  the  valley, 

With  the  shriek  and  the  clank  of  the  pumps  groaning 

beneath  them, 
And  the  choking  gurgle  of  tepid  water. 


V 

THE  FUEL  VENDOR 

Up  and  down  and  up  and  down, 

Through  the  stony  uplands  every  day, 

Where  the  dark  blue  peaks  dream  far  away, 

Beating  my  donkey  with  a  stick 

I  go; 

To  gather  fuel  for  the  town, 

Strips  of  dead  greasewood,  twisted,  grey  — 

Where  on  the  windblown  edge  of  a  cliff 

Yellow  crumbling  walls  look  far  below, 

As  they  did  centuries  ago ; 

When  the  Spaniards  in  their  helmets 

With  the  banner  of  the  cross 

Rode  along; 

There  I  stop  and  break  my  fast. 

There  dried  onions  and  two  pieces  of  bread, 

From  a  rag  tied  to  my  belt, 

And  I  drink 

From  the  wicker  flask, 

109 


110  THE  FUEL  VENDOR 

Daubed  with  yellow  pitch  outside, 
Slung  at  my  donkey's  shoulder. 

Up  and  down  and  up  and  down, 

In  the  afternoon,  through  the  streets  of  the  town, 

Beating  my  donkey  with  a  stick, 

I  go. 

And  the  long  rambling  lines  of  houses, 

With  grey  plastered  walls, 

Hear  my  calls  ; 

"Oyo,  legno!" 

My  life  is  a  stony  plain, 

In  which  I  gather  twisted  sticks; 

The  heat  and  the  strain 

Of  hunger  ever  watching  me, 

The  rose-and-opal  mystery 

Of  the  silence; 

And  the  peaks  like  great  black  altars  of  death 

Against  the  scarlet  of  the  evening. 

And  after 

There  will  come  a  deeper  silence, 

Broken  by  wind's  laughter 

As  it  rattles  a  rickety  worm-eaten  cross 

Amid  grey  moonlight  falling  like  ashes, 


THE  FUEL  VENDOR  III 


And  the  flight  of  pale  thistle  seeds, 

And  the  coyotes  yapping  somewhere  afar  off, 

Beyond  a  grave  which  no  one  heeds. 


VI 
RAIN  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  huge  red-buttressed  mesa  over  yonder, 

Is  merely  a  far-off  temple  where  the  sleepy  sun  is 

burning 
Its  altar-fires  of  pinyon  and  of  toyon  for  the  day. 

The  old  priests  sleep,  white-shrouded, 
Their  pottery  whistles  lie  beside  them,  the  prayer- 
sticks  closely  feathered ; 
On  every  mummied  face  there  glows  a  smile. 

The  sun  is  rolling  slowly 

Beneath  the  sluggish  folds  of  the  sky-serpents, 

Coiling,  uncoiling,  blue-black,  sparked  with  fires. 

The  old  dead  priests 

Feel  in  the  thin  dried  earth  that  is  heaped  about 

them, 

Above  the  smell  of  scorching  oozing  pinyon, 
The  acrid  smell  of  rain. 

112 


RAIN  IN  THE  DESERT  113 

And  now  the  showers 

Surround  the  mesa  like  a  troop  of  silver  dancers: 
Shaking  their  rattles,  stamping,  chanting,   roaring, 
Whirling,  extinguishing  the  last  red  wisp  of  light. 

August,  1915. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND 

The  wind  that  sizzles  through  the  withered  stalks 
of  grasses  in  the  heat  of  midsummer.  The  wind 
that  comes  up  humming,  buzzing,  singing,  tingling, 
ringing  through  the  treeless  plains.  The  wind  that 
whispers  its  refrain  from  far  away  in  the  quivering 
heat.  The  wind  that  tosses  the  scarlet  poppies  and 
golden  beards  of  wheat  apart  and  flings  them  laugh 
ingly  into  the  panting  heart  of  the  sky. 

O,  my  soul  of  purple  and  gold,  the  earth  is  green, 
the  sun  is  gold! 

The  wind  that  whoops,  ho!  ho!  in  the  noonday. 
The  wind  that  rattles  like  cavalry  advancing.  The 
wind  that  stamps  and  dances  on  the  wrinkled  face 
of  earth,  making  it  grin  in  a  yellow  smile.  The 
wind  that  stops  awhile  and  then  comes  on  in  multi 
tudes,  flickering,  licking  dry  wavelets,  screaming, 
fighting,  tingling,  tossing,  clanging,  prowling,  growl 
ing,  howling,  rasping,  soaring,  crashing  and  ebbing 
away.  The  wind  that  frays  out  the  upper  cloud 
to  plume-streamers  of  spray  and  spatters  the  sun 
light  in  one  blinding  wave  at  my  feet. 
114 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  115 

O  my  soul  of  scarlet  and  gold,  the  earth  is  white, 
the  sun  is  gold! 

The  wind  that  flings  sudden  sharp  spurts  of 
glistening  sand  against  the  purple  walls  of  after 
noon.  The  wind  that  curls  and  murmurs  evenly, 
pausing,  retreating  as  if  it  sought  a  tree.  The  wind 
of  the  desert  sounding,  rebounding,  twanging  one 
low  string  against  the  stillness.  The  wind  that 
shrieks  in  pain  once  and  again  as  if  touched  by  a 
sputter  of  flame  from  the  sun's  torch.  The  wind 
that  blows  steadily  through  the  blue  porch  of  eve 
ning  dry  and  languid  reedy  complaints. 

O  my  soul  of  the  blue  and  gold,  the  earth  is  cold, 
the  sky  is  cold! 

The  wind  that  spins  the  stars  upward  in  mad 
scattered  chase  of  white  flakes  against  the  night. 
The  wind  that  strews  the  earth  with  the  green- 
grey  ashes  of  the  moon.  The  wind  that  screeches 
out  of  tune,  dying  away  to  an  eerie  whine  like 
rockets  plunging  down  in  the  darkness.  The  wind 
that  comes  from  nowhere  and  suddenly  bursts  the 
blue-black  bubble  of  hot  air.  The  wind  that 
quavers  restlessly.  The  wind  that  stirs  and  flutters 
and  starts  with  a  jump,  plunging  away  frantically 
into  darkness.  The  wind  that  pours  the  emptiness 
of  night  down  upon  the  earth  in  one  black  toppling 


Il6  THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND 

wave,  through  which  the  stars  roar  and  smoke. 
The  wind  that  chokes  you  with  its  thunderous  can 
nonade. 

Oh  my  soul  of  black  and  gold,  the  wind  has  pierced 
me  with  its  shrilling  arrows  —  its  arrows  barbed 
with  scarlet,  green  and  gold! 

Summer,  1915. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WEST 

To  the  east  rise  the  blue  tips  of  the  Rockies, 
to  the  west  enormous  orange-flecked  tablelands. 
Between  them,  bands  on  bands  of  desert,  dotted 
with  gray  sagebrush  and  chaparral,  falling  south- 
westward.  Wallowing  over  its  quicksands,  ruddy 
brown,  writhing  in  tumbled  eddies,  a  straggling 
shallow  river  rushes  down  endlessly.  A  few  clumps 
of  sickly  willows  line  either  bank.  Beyond,  blank 
and  empty,  but  for  the  interspersing  of  parched 
foliage,  sun-blackened  boulders,  and  prairie-dog 
holes,  rolls  the  desert,  mile  beyond  mile  on  either 
side,  an  endless  wide  space  of  silence  spied  upon 
by  the  jagged  range  of  blue  peaks  from  which  the 
sun  rose  this  morning,  and  the  long  line  of  great 
tablelands  to  which  he  will  descend  to-night.  Now 
the  sun  moves  neither  to  left  nor  right;  he  hangs 
dead  overhead  and  fills  all  the  air  with  the  raging 
blaze  of  an  August  noon.  The  prairie  dogs  are 
asleep  in  their  burrows;  a  rattle-snake  lies  motion 
less  on  a  stone;  even  the  coyote  that  loves  to  go 
slinking  alone  through  the  sagebrush,  has  hidden 


Il8  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WEST 

himself  somewhere  and  sleeps.  Up  above  there  is 
only  the  unwearied  wheeling  of  an  eagle  from  side 
to  side  turning  and  turning  in  endless  wide  circles 
around  the  sun.  The  desert  below  him  seems  burn 
ing:  ashen-yellow,  red-yellow,  faint  blue  and  rose 
brown.  Not  a  cloud  flake  breaks  with  its  shadow 
the  great  space  of  sky  and  of  earth.  Only  the  river 
glides  on  ever  fretting  with  its  shallow  brown  waters 
the  dearth.  Silence — the  silence  of  noonday:  not 
a  whisper,  not  even  a  breath.  The  desert  stands 
wide,  free  and  open,  and  the  sky  is  a  blue  ring 
of  death. 

To  the  south  the  great  floor  opens  wider  till  it 
seems  to  crumble  away  under  the  blaze  of  day  into 
fantastic  island-masses,  miraged  peaks  hanging  in 
mid-air.  To  the  north  it  closes  up  again,  range  on 
range  of  mountains  staining  with  faint  blue  the 
horizon.  Between  these  two  the  desert  rests,  with 
out  a  break,  without  a  path,  without  a  track.  Up 
the  crannies  of  the  westward  canyons  are  tiny  mud- 
baked  houses,  standing  on  cracked  shelves  of 
yellow  stone.  These  are  empty  and  deserted  and 
their  inhabitants  are  gone.  Down  to  the  south,  the 
Spaniard  came  riding  centuries  ago,  with  his  pike- 
men,  mules,  and  musketeers,  seeking  Eldorado. 
Mission  bells  toll  over  the  desert,  lofty  pueblos  lift 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WEST  1 19 

old  chants  for  rain.  Northward,  French  and  British 
traders  cease  their  fighting,  exchange  beads  for 
furs  again.  Spaniards,  Frenchmen,  British,  Indians, 
each  have  been  seeking  Eldorado  in  their  own  way. 
Yet  to  this  day  the  desert  lies  empty,  a  spot  as  lonely 
as  when  it  was  created,  roamed  over  only  by  the 
buffalo  and  antelope.  Now  and  then  a  little  troop 
of  Paiute  Indians,  mounted  on  lean  ponies,  lope 
through  it,  and  an  arrow  or  two  brings  down  some 
old  bull  after  a  hard  chase.  Yet  the  path  to  El 
dorado  lies  through  this  very  place. 

It  is  afternoon  and  a  small  herd  of  buffaloes 
have  come  down  to  the  shallows  to  drink.  The 
bulls  stop  about  the  brink  to  wallow  in  the  mud, 
the  cows  nose  among  the  stones  for  grass,  the 
young  calves  are  suckling  from  their  mothers. 
Suddenly  the  eldest  bull  stops  and  looks  up  arrested 
by  a  strange  sight.  Over  the  desert,  heading 
straight  westward  in  a  line  like  an  arrow-flight, 
something  is  rolling  slowly  like  an  enormous  snake, 
clouds  of  gray  alkali  dust  rising  and  trailing  in  its 
wake.  It  dips  and  rises,  dips  and  rises  again,  fol 
lowing  the  hummocks  and  hollows  of  the  enormous 
plain.  The  old  bulls  stupidly  pause  to  look  at  it, 
the  cows  are  still  browsing,  nearer  and  nearer  it 
comes  with  the  sound  of  groaning  axles,  wheels 


120  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WEST 

rattling,  fiddles  scraping  "  Good-bye  Pike  County," 
pans  rattling  and  whips  cracking  —  till  a  human  eye 
could  descry  what  it  is:  a  caravan  of  ox-drawn 
prairie  schooners  covered  with  pale  yellow  canvas, 
going  towards  the  setting  sun.  Suddenly  a  group  of 
agile  riders  detach  themselves  from  the  mass.  They 
have  sighted  the  buffalo.  Before  the  herd  can  pass 
the  stream,  or  the  grazing  cows  can  be  brought  to 
gether,  the  leather-jacketed  hunters  are  among 
them ;  shooting  so  close  to  the  plunging  brutes,  that 
the  blaze  of  the  powder  scorches  the  hide  and 
burns  the  hair.  Half  an  hour  later,  the  oxen  toil  up 
and  the  wagons  are  drawn  together  in  a  great  circle 
near  to  the  banks  of  the  stream.  Fires  of  grease- 
wood  are  lighted,  the  coffee  pot  sizzles,  the  fresh 
meat  splutters,  raw-boned  loose- jointed  men  discuss 
the  events  of  the  day,  gingham-aproned  sun-bon- 
netted  women  are  running  about,  children  play 
under  the  canopy.  .  .  .  Slowly  the  sun  sinks  west 
ward  over  the  desert,  spilling  his  glory  as  he  goes, 
touching  the  eastward  peaks  to  vermilion,  sap 
phire,  violet  and  rose.  Stars  hang  in  the  sky  like 
blinding  facetted  diamonds,  night  falls  on  the  en 
campment,  there  is  rough  merrymaking.  Over  the 
face  of  the  desert  slither  the  coyotes,  attracted  by 
the  smell  of  fresh  meat,  and  they  gather  together 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WEST  12 1 

before  morning,  saluting  the  wagons  with  yappings 
endlessly  repeated  from  all  sides  of  the  horizon. 
The  stars  pale  and  fade:  the  camp  fires  burn 
bright  in  the  dawning,  men  with  matted  hair  walk 
about  yawning.  Horses  are  caught  and  saddled, 
tethered  cattle  assemble,  wagons  roll  off  with  a  jolt 
and  an  oath  across  the  ford,  they  rumble  away 
going  westward  again  and  are  swallowed  up  in 
silence.  From  aloft  drop  a  troop  of  wheeling  gray 
vultures  scenting  the  carrion.  Over  the  slopes  of 
the  Rockies  pours  the  blue  dawn. 

To  the  east  rise  the  blue  tips  of  the  Rockies;  to 
the  west,  fantastic  orange-flecked  tablelands.  Be 
tween  them,  in  bands  on  bands,  mile  after  mile,  go 
the  pioneers,  seeking  their  fortunes  or  a  grave.  As 
yet  the  trail  they  follow  is  only  a  narrow  track  in 
the  dust,  down  which  goes  bumping  and  thundering 
in  a  heavy  coach  drawn  by  six  bay  horses,  the  gov 
ernment  mail.  For  now  there  is  another  state  yon 
der,  far  behind  those  great  tablelands  and  the 
white  peaks  to  which  they  rise,  a  state  set  on  the 
shores  of  another  ocean  where  the  east  faces  the 
west,  where  the  worst  mingles  with  the  best,  where 
men  spend  sackfuls  of  gold  dust  for  a  letter,  and 
fight  each  other  with  knives  over  a  handful  of  flour. 
The  dream  of  Eldorado  has  come  true,  at  last, 


122  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WEST 

and  the  Spaniard's  hope,  the  Englishman's  achieve 
ment  sink  into  the  past.  Yet  this  news  does  not 
run  very  far  here  in  the  desert.  The  antelopes  still 
browse  where  they  choose,  the  buffalo  still  disputes 
the  right  of  way  with  every  despatch  rider.  The 
Paiutes  and  Navahoes  that  pass  on  their  ponies 
have  a  few  more  rifles,  that  is  all.  Here  and  there, 
beside  the  trail,  there  are  the  bones  of  dead  horses 
and  cattle,  the  skeleton  framework  of  overturned 
wagons,  or  a  pile  of  stones  six  by  three  to  mark 
that  human  burial  is  as  cheap  as  fortune  and 
fame.  For  the  rest  the  face  of  the  desert  is  pre 
cisely  the  same. 

Then  one  day  come  the  cattle,  driven  out  from 
their  ranges  in  Texas  to  seek  the  fresh  grass  of 
Wyoming  pastures.  They  roll  out  of  the  south  in 
strings  of  a  thousand,  deep  red  or  smoky  black 
beasts,  broadhorned  steers  tossing  their  muzzles 
and  pawing,  cows  lowing,  calves  bawling;  bronze- 
faced  horsemen  in  chaparejos,  riding  around  them, 
whooping  and  calling  and  whirling  their  lariats.  At 
the  ford,  there  is  tumult  and  commotion,  many  get 
sucked  into  the  quicksands  impelled  by  others,  and 
there  are  oaths  and  yells.  Finally  the  scene  is 
quietened.  The  cattle  have  gone,  and  the  desert,  a 
little  trampled  on,  quickly  resumes  its  old  aspect. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WEST  123 

Here  and  there  a  buzzard  or  a  watchful  Indian  is 
feeding:  that  is  all. 

So  fall  and  winter  pass  and  in  the  spring  a  sur 
veying  party  carefully  go  over  the  road.  Long 
bands  of  shining  steel  begin  to  be  laid  out  from 
east  to  west,  till  at  last  they  meet  on  the  desert's 
breast.  The  smoky  trains  thunder  from  Manhattan 
to  Wagon  Wheel  Gap,  from  the  crossings  of  the 
Platte  to  the  Great  Divide,  from  the  Sierras  to  the 
Golden  Gate.  One  force  alone  remains  to  challenge 
fate,  that  iron  monster  that  sweeps  across  a  con 
tinent  devouring  time  in  his  stride.  The  great 
buffalo  herd,  worried  upon  its  flanks,  moves  south 
ward  in  autumn  in  serried  ranks  across  the  desert. 
In  the  very  eye  of  the  arrested  trains  they  pass, 
slowly,  and  with  deliberation  all  day.  In  that 
packed  mass  of  shaggy  magnificence  are  twenty 
thousand  heads,  mere  remnant  of  the  innumerable 
herds  that  once  roamed  every  prairie  west  of  the 
Mississippi.  Now  they  go  slowly,  snorting  in  anger 
at  the  shrieking  black  locomotive  that  dares  not  cut 
through  their  living  wall  of  flesh.  Till  they  are 
gone,  progress  is  caught  up  in  the  mesh  of  the 
desert  and  the  mails  are  delayed.  But  the  narrow 
double  band  of  steel  rails  is  untroubled,  and  it  bides 
its  time  knowing  that  soon  again  train  after  train 


124  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WEST 

will  go  thundering  across  the  plain,  binding  the  two 
halves  of  the  continent  together,  west  waiting  on 
east  and  east  creating  the  west,  shuttle  on  shuttle 
passing  over  the  desert's  gray  breast. 

Bands  of  hunters  converge  on  a  spot  beyond  the 
Rockies  a  few  years  later  for  a  great  killing.  The 
last  remnant  of  the  buffalo  herd  is  slaughtered  and 
the  bitter  water  of  the  salt-licks  dyed  red.  The  sun 
hangs  dizzily  over  a  blue  peak  to  westward  till  the 
last  of  the  shaggy  bulls,  shaking  his  head,  and  paw 
ing  the  ground  in  agony,  is  gone.  Then  it  sinks  in 
a  vast  splendor  of  ebbing  flame  over  the  desert 
which,  from  this  time  on,  is  lifeless.  So  day  after 
day  goes  by,  peering  over  the  peaks  to  the  eastward 
and  dying  away  into  the  grey  waste  in  silence. 
Then  suddenly  one  morning  the  sagebrush  is  filled 
with  the  warning  gallop  of  ponies  and  hundreds  of 
naked  copper-brown  bodies,  smeared  with  red  and 
black  paint,  flash  past.  The  Sioux  have  broken 
loose  at  last,  and  are  sweeping  eastward  from  their 
reservation  upon  the  outposts  of  civilization.  A 
little  troop  of  cavalry,  hastily  summoned,  is  sur 
rounded;  the  troopers  shoot  down  their  horses,  and 
lying  behind  improvised  breastworks,  keep  firing  in 
an  irregular  circle,  around  which  go  careering  and 
yelling,  clinging  low  to  their  ponies'  necks  and 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WEST  125 

shooting  arrows  as  they  gallop,  the  Redskins.  At 
last,  by  night,  the  ammunition  of  the  whites  is  ex 
hausted;  and  Sitting  Bull,  the  chief  who  led  his 
tribesmen  to  the  war,  can  draw  forth  his  enemy's 
smoking  heart  and  gaze  upon  it  where  it  lies  in  his 
hand.  But  soon  more  bands  of  cavalry  arrive, 
rushed  up  by  trains,  and  once  again  the  unequal 
contest  is  joined,  white  man  against  red,  science 
against  savagery.  The  Indians  are  driven  back,  the 
wolf,  the  bear,  the  elk,  disappear  in  their  last  fast 
nesses,  ranches  are  laid  out  in  the  desert,  and  the 
ring  of  civilization  closes  in.  Passing,  forever  pass 
ing  is  the  west !  Passing  is  the  wild  free  life  of  the 
desert  —  the  open  air,  the  chaparral,  the  boundless 
waste,  the  blue  sky  over  all!  Passing,  departing, 
vanishing,  not  to  be  sung,  not  to  be  remembered,  not 
to  be  known.  The  last  great  stretch  of  sunlight,  of 
loneliness,  of  silence,  is  forever  gone. 

To  the  east  rise  the  blue  tips  of  the  Rockies,  to 
the  west  enormous  orange-flecked  tablelands.  Be 
tween  them  rolls  the  river  as  of  old,  but  a  man's 
hand  might  almost  span  it.  All  of  its  water  but  a 
trickle  flows  in  irrigation  ditches,  past  patches  of 
intense  blue-green  alfalfa.  The  fields  are  divided 
from  each  other  by  wind-breaks  of  tall  poplars,  and 
in  between  them  rise  glittering  windmills,  white- 


126  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WEST 

painted  houses  and  red  barns.  Automobiles  roll 
past  on  smooth  level  roads,  and  on  summer  port 
icoes  people  sit  fanning  themselves,  sipping  ice-water, 
dipping  into  cheap  magazines,  discussing  fruit  crops 
and  the  victory  of  prohibition.  The  sun  sinks 
slowly  over  an  orange-colored  mesa  to  westward 
and  through  the  thin,  lightly  quivering  air  rises  the 
blue  smoke  from  the  houses. 

1916-1920. 


SONGS  OF  THE  ARKANSAS 

INVOCATION 

Eastward,  House  where  the  Sun  is  kindled: 
Northward,  Cave  where  the  Wind  sleeps  in  dark 
ness: 

Southward,  Swamp  where  the  Snake-Mist  rises: 
Westward,  Plain  where  the  Ghost-Trail  goes: 

Hear  my  prayer! 

I  bow  myself  to  the  quarters; 

I  salute  Sun  and  Earth,  my  parents; 

Let  my  brother  and  sister,  Wind  and  Water, 

Carry  my  cry  to  Him-Who-Dwells-Beyond: 

Many  things  have  I  to  say  unto  you : 

Spirit  who  will  not  listen ! 

Many  things  have  I  and  my  people  on  our  hearts, 

Many  great  griefs. 

Many  chiefs !     Many  warriors !     Many  young  men ! 
Many  women!     Many  dogs!     Many  weapons! 
127 


128  INVOCATION 

Are  You  but  a  thieving  Shawnee 

To  take  these  things  from  our  tribe? 

Wherefore  do  You  now  abandon  us? 
Came  we  out  of  the  deadly  land  of  darkness, 
Out  of  the  land  of  cold  long  nights  and  winters, 
Only  to  die  in  this  place? 

Did  the  great  river  that  Your  Finger  traced 
Then  deceive  us  with  its  current  ? 
Did  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron 
Fly  southward  but  to  mock  us  ? 

You  who  baited  this  trap  with  enemies, 

Tell  us  where  we  may  wander, 

We  weary,  we  footsore,  we  lost,  we  forsaken, — 

Where  is  our  changeless  home? 

Men  with  white  faces  and  lying  hearts 

Have  you  now  sent  out  amongst  us: 

We  received  them  —  we  believed  it  was  Your  will 

Lo,  what  they  have  done  to  us! 

We  know  You  to  be  our  Father, 

We  know  all  might  and  craft  are  in  You; 


INVOCATION  129 

Save  the  Fire  You  have  kindled, 
We  have  no  other  light ! 

Help  the  sick:  comfort  the  aged: 
Give  victory  to  our  warriors : 
Rob  not  the  mothers  of  children: 
Send  not  famine  upon  us! 

The  green  corn  that  waves  in  the  sunlight 
Is  Yours,  the  grey  forest  also ; 
Without  the  sun  You  made  for  us, 
The  trail  is  lost  in  darkness. 

You  breathe  into  our  nostrils 
The  fire ;  then  wherefore  does  it  fail  ? 
You  will  not  let  it  perish, 
All  that  You  do  is  good. 

To  the  East,  bird's  song  uprising; 
To  the  North,  rustling  forests; 
To  the  South,  wide-sweeping  rivers, 
To  the  West,  the  sigh  of  grass: 

Hear  our  prayer! 


130  INVOCATION 

I  bow  myself  to  the  quarters; 
I  salute  Sun  and  Earth,  my  parents. 
Once  more  the  song  has  gone  forth, 
Like  smoke  it  has  vanished  in  sunlight. 


WOMEN'S  SONG  AT  THE  TIME  OF 
THE  GREEN-CORN  DANCE 

Sprout,   green  corn,  on  the  bosom  of  earth,  your 

mother, 
Thrust  out  your  thin  green  spears  to  the  warm 

grey  rain; 
Grow,  green  corn,  the  deer  shall  not  trample  near 

you, 
Leap,  green  corn,  the  winter  of  earth  is  past. 

Shake,  green  corn,  the  deer  on  the  trails  are  leaping ; 
Blush,  green  corn,  pink  tassels  amid  your  leaves; 
Ripple  and  rustle,  start  and  shake  and  flutter, 
Grow,  green  corn,  it  is  your  grains  we  would  eat. 

Smile,  green  corn,  gold  ornaments  in  the  sunlight, 
Dew-beads  of  silver  glistening  in  twisted  hair: 
Bend  to  the  wind,  draw  the  deer  closer  to  you, 
Grow,  ever  grow  —  your  sorrows  will  soon  be  great. 

Wither,  o  corn,  under  the  heat  of  the  summer, 
Watch,  o  corn,  the  deer  feeding  far  away, 


132  WOMEN'S  SONG 

Struggle,  o  corn,  break  your  slender  silken  sheathing, 
Rejoice,  o  corn,  for  the  burden  of  the  tasseled  ears! 

Break  your  sheath,  for  it  is  the  time  of  the  harvest, 
The  swift  footed  deer  are  stealing  the  ripening  grain ; 
Weep  in  the  wind,   let  it  tear  into  ribbons  your 

beauty, 
The  life  you  brought  from  the  earth  is  taken  again. 

Creak,  old  corn,  rustle  your  aching  body, 
Crack,  old  corn,  spill  out  your  decaying  seeds ; 
The  young  deer,  far  away,  are  fighting  together, 
The  old  deer,  sick  and  feeble,  drowse  in  your  shade. 

Perish,  old  corn,  on  the  bosom  of  earth,  your  mother, 
Thrust  back  to  her  silence  the  thin  roots  of  your 

pain; 
Let  the  heavy  snow  of  the  winter  be  heaped  in  you 

where  you  are  hidden, 
Soon  enough  you  will  awaken  to  the  selfsame  sorrow 

again. 


WAR-SONG 

It  is  the  seventh  day  of  vigil; 
Silent,  haggard,  and  sleepless 
We  wait  for  news  from  our  trackers 
To  learn  if  the  omens  be  good. 

Wherefore  has  the  Sun-Spirit 

Put  trouble  into  our  hearts? 

Dark  clouds  fly  upwards  bringing  the  thunder, 

War  comes  stalking  near  our  home. 

The  burden  of  hunger  and  death 
Weighs  on  our  hearts  and  rifles; 
No  word  from  the  restless  heavens, 
No  smoke  from  the  beacon-fires: 

The  yellow-faces  steal  out  silently, 
Broken  by  the  ordeal; 
Shunned  by  the  women 
They  slink  away  to  the  woods. 

The  Chief  lifts  up  his  voice  in  prayer. 
133 


134  WAR-SONG 

"  Eagle,  war  eagle, 
Sailing,  wheeling  near  us, 
Spirit  that  shrieks  in  air, 
Spirit  that  rights  the  wind, 
Spirit  that  looks  at  the  sun, 
Put  courage  in  our  hearts. 

"  Long  ago  our  fathers, 
Like  eagles  after  the  rabbit, 
Pursued  the  Chickasaw. 

"  That  they  might  have  chance  to  battle, 
In  silence  they  offered  their  own  powder 
With  looks  and  gestures  of  scorn. 

"  The  Chickasaw  accepted, 
They  loaded,  made  ready  for  battle. 

"  One  flash  from  the  muskets, 
One  volley  of  red  death ; 
Then  wheeling,  screaming,  eagles, 
They  closed  in  with  the  hatchet. 

"  Eagle,  war-eagle, 

The  plumes  are  stained  with  crimson  death 

Spirit  that  dares  the  lightning! 


WAR-SONG  135 

Spirit  that  rides  the  cyclone! 

Spirit  that  wings  a  way  amid  the  stars, 

Put  courage  in  our  hearts." 

The  trackers  have  returned 
With  weary  eyes. 

Silently  we  paint  our  faces, 
Silently  sharpen   the  hatchets, 
Silently  to  every  warrior 
Is  given  the  eagle-plume. 

Out  of  doors  the  women  cry: 

"  Snake,  rattlesnake, 

Coiling,  creeping,  near  us, 

Spirit  of  the  hidden  ways  of  earth, 

Spirit  holding  the  fluttering  bird  with  your  eyes. 

Spirit  that  strikes  but  once,  and  glides  away, 

Give  craftiness  to  our  men! 

"  Forget  not,  how  the  Osages 
Would  have  slain  you. 

"  They  led  you  forth  to  the  forest, 

And,  when  the  night  fell, 


136  WAR-SONG 

Swearing  with  many  oaths 
That  the  enemy  were  near, 
They  crept  to  their  secret  ambush 
Saying  you  must  attack  when  the  moon  began  to 
rise. 

"  But  a  snake  had  whispered  to  your  chief 
Many  cunning  thoughts. — 

"  With  full  hands  he  bade  you  pile 
Branches  on  the  campfires, 
And  withdraw  into  the  shadows. 

"  A  flash,  a  yell, 

Out  burst  the  traitors: 

Towards  the  fire  they  leapt 

Like  wolves,  with  howling  laughter. 

"  But  you  awaited, 

You  did  not  utter  a  sound. 

And  when  the  astonished  faces  glowed  clearly  in 

the  firelight, 
You  gave  them  volley  on  volley. 

"  Snake,  rattlesnake, 

Your  fangs  have  met  in  quivering  flesh. 


WAR-SONG  137 

Spirit  that  bides  its  moment, 
Spirit  that  knows  the  spot  to  strike, 
Spirit  of  the  secret  lurking-places, 
Give  craftiness  to  our  men." 

The  song  is  silent. 

Far  off  into  the  sky  there  lifts  a  long  blue  plume 

of  smoke 
From  the  distant  hills. 

It  is  the  great  war-signal. 

We  stagger  from  the  council-lodge, 

The  women  fly  with  shrieks. 

The  seven-day  fast  is  broken, 
Silent,  haggard  and  sleepless, 
We  double  into  the  forest, 
Like  blood-scenting  wolves. 


DEATH-SONG 

Burn  the  lodge,  break  the  weapons, 
Let  the  pure  fire  eat  him  wholly, 
For  his  Father  the  Sun  has  called  him 
Into  the  West. 

Nihahani !     He  has  departed 
On  the  long,  lone  trail  of  darkness ; 
Not  a  friend  to  guide  his  footsteps, 
Enemies  on  every  side  near  him, 
Into  the  flooded  plains. 

Bring  food  to  him  at  sunset, 
He  is  tired. 

Nihahani!     The  woods  vanish : 
Empty  wastes  all  sides  surround  him, 
Buffaloes  fly  from  his  wavering  shadow, 
Saw-grass  cuts  his  bleeding  feet. 

Break  jars  of  water  on  the  mound, 
For  he  is  thirsty  and  would  drink. 
138 


DEATH-SONG  139 

Nihahani!  he  is  captured: 
Raven-spirits  drag  him  fainting 
To  the  hollow  cave  of  darkness, 
Into  the  hole  of  torment. 
Leap  into  the  fire  at  last, 
You  who  love  him 
Bring  him  aid! 

Cease,  for  the  food  is  not  eaten; 

Cease,  for  your  offerings  rot  on  the  poles ; 

Cease,  for  the  grave-mound  is  covered  with  grass, 

And  we  are  very  few, 

What  will  become  of  our  tribe  if  we  sacrifice  his 

sons, 
How  will  we  ever  accomplish  vengeance  upon  our 

foes? 

Nihahani !     He  sleeps  with  his  fathers ; 
Day  by  day  his  mother  brings  him 
Deer  that  his  own  arrows  have  slaughtered, 
Arrows  sped  by  his  son's  hands. 
But  for  us,  who  will  burn  the  lodges, 
Who  will  ever  cover  the  grave-mound   with   rich 
spoil  ? 

February,  1915. 


IN  THE  CITY  OF  NIGHT 

(To  the  Memory  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe) 

City  of  night, 

Wrap  me  in  your  folds  of  shadow. 

City  of  twilight, 
City  that  projects  into  the  west, 
City  whose  columns  rest  upon  the  sunset,  city  of 
square,  threatening  masses  blocking  out  the  light : 
City  of  twilight, 
Wrap  me  in  your  folds  of  shadow. 


City  of  midnight,  city  that  the  full  moon  over 
flows,  city  where  the  cats  prowl  and  the  closed  iron 
dust-carts  go  rattling  through  the  shadows: 

City  of  midnight, 

Wrap  me  in  your  folds  of  shadow. 

City  of  early  morning,  cool  fresh-sprinkled  city, 
city  whose  sharp  roof  peaks  are  splintered  against 
the  stars,  city  that  unbars  tall  haggard  gates  in  pity, 
140 


IN  THE  CITY  OF  NIGHT  I41 

City  of  midnight, 

Wrap  me  in  your  folds  of  shadow. 

City  of  rain,  city  where  the  bleak  wind  batters  the 
hard  drops  once  and  again,  sousing  a  shivering, 
cursing  beggar  who  clings  amid  the  stiff  Apostles 
on  the  cathedral  portico ; 

City  where  the  glare  is  dull  and  lowering,  city 
where  the  clouds  flare  and  flicker  as  they  pass  up 
wards,  where  sputtering  lamps  stare  into  the  muddy 
pools  beneath  them; 

City  where  the  winds  shriek  up  the  streets  and 
tear  into  the  squares,  city  whose  cobbles  quiver  and 
whose  pinnacles  waver  before  the  buzzing  chatter  of 
raindrops  in  their  flight; 

City  of  midnight, 

Drench  me  with  your  rain  of  sorrow. 

City  of  vermilion  curtains,  city  whose  windows 
drip  with  crimson,  tawdry,  tinselled,  sensual  city, 
throw  me  pitilessly  into  your  crowds. 

City  filled  with  women's  faces  leering  at  the 
passers  by, 

City  with  doorways  always  open,  city  of  silks  and 
swishing  laces,  city  where  bands  bray  dance-music 
all  night  in  the  plaza, 


142  IN  THE  CITY  OF  NIGHT 

City  where  the  overscented  light  hangs  tepidly, 
stabbed  with  jabber  of  the  crowd,  city  where  the 
stars  stare  coldly,  falsely  smiling  through  the  smoke- 
filled  air, 

City  of  midnight, 

Smite  me  with  your  despair. 

City  of  emptiness,  city  of  the  white  fagades,  city 
where  one  lonely  dangling  lantern  wavers  aloft  like 
a  taper  before  a  marble  sarcophagus,  frightening 
away  the  ghosts; 

City  where  a  single  white-lit  window  in  a  motion 
less  blackened  house-front  swallows  the  hosts  of 
darkness  that  stream  down  the  street  towards  it ; 

City  above  whose  dark  tree-tangled  park  emerges 
suddenly,  unlit,  uncannily,  a  grey  ghostly  tower 
whose  base  is  lost  in  the  fog,  and  whose  summit  has 
no  end. 

City  of  midnight, 

Bury  me  in  your  silence. 

City  of  night, 

Wrap  me  in  your  folds  of  shadow. 

City  of  restlessness,  city  where  I  have  tramped 
and  wandered, 


IN  THE  CITY  OF  NIGHT  143 

City  where  the  herded  crowds  glance  at  me  sus 
piciously,  city  where  the  churches  are  locked,  the 
shops  unopened,  the  houses  without  hospitality, 

City  of  restlessness, 

Wrap  me  in  your  folds  of  shadow. 

City  of  sleeplessness,  city  of  cheap  airless  rooms, 
where  in  the  gloom  are  heard  snores  through  the 
partition,  lovers  that  struggle,  couples  that  squabble, 
cabs  that  rattle,  cats  that  squall, 

City  of  sleeplessness, 

Wrap  me  in  your  folds  of  shadow. 

City  of  feverish  dreams,  city  that  is  being  be 
sieged  by  all  the  demons  of  darkness,  city  of  in 
numerable  shadowy  vaults  and  towers,  city  where 
passion  flowers  desperately  and  treachery  ends  in 
death  the  strong : 

City  of  night, 

Wrap  me  in  your  folds  of  shadow. 

February,  1915. 


AMERICA 
1916 

From  the  sea-coast,  from  the  bleak  ravines  of  the 
hills  that  lift  their  bare  escarpments  towards  the 
sky  that  pours  down  pitiless  threads  of  sunlight, 
whirls  over  chill  clinging  tentacles  of  rain,  smashes 
hard  buffets  of  huge  wind,  sifts  fine  quivering  drifts 
of  snow,  thrashes  with  thunder  and  with  hail,  un 
curls  its  great  sodden  flapping  curtains  before  the 
gale  —  from  the  marshlands,  from  the  banks  of  slow 
rivers,  from  the  still  brown  plateaus,  from  the  midst 
of  steaming  valleys,  from  the  wide  bays  ringed  with 
peaks  —  a  thousand  cities  reek  into  the  sky. 
Through  a  million  vents  the  smell  of  cookery  over 
flows.  It  rises  upwards  day  and  night  in  strange 
tragic  black  rows  of  smoke  that  glow  and  make  the 
stars  quiver,  and  dance  and  darken  the  sunlight. 

Green  billows  of  corn,  golden  seas  of  wheat, 
white  lakes  of  cotton  meet  and  fuse  and  intercross. 
Cattle  string  across  in  frightened  procession ;  multi 
tudes  on  multitudes  of  horses,  black,  dun,  grey, 
gallop  away  after  them,  jarring  the  earth  with  their 
144 


AMERICA  145 

hoofs,  beating  up  dust  in  heavy  fluffy  clouds.  Far 
away  the  sun  lies  still  over  broad  patches  of  silence, 
sparsely  green,  where  an  eagle  hovers  or  an  antelope 
starts  up  or  a  sly  half-starving  coyote  is  seen.  The 
sun  looks  into  yellow  castles  wedged  in  the  cliff 
that  were  old  when  the  first  explorers  saw  them,  and 
on  white  bulging  palaces  tinselled  with  marble  and 
gold.  The  sun  sees  engines  that  rattle  and  cough, 
black  derricks  that  wave  their  arms  in  circles  aloft, 
crazy  log  cabins  toppling  into  the  marsh.  On  every 
side  are  symbols  of  man's  desire  made  with  his 
hands,  hurried,  glorious,  sordid,  tragic,  clashing,  in 
sane;  the  sun  looks  down  and  does  not  understand 
but  pours  over  them  its  heat,  and  cold,  and  rain,  and 
light,  and  lightning,  always  the  same. 

Immense  machines  are  clamouring,  rattling, 
battling,  wheeling,  screaming,  heaving,  weaving. 
The  wheels  moan  and  groan  and  roar  and  waver 
and  snap  —  and  go  on  as  before.  Between  the 
cities,  over  plain  and  hill,  reel  double  paths  of 
shining  steel,  where  screaming  locomotives  pass  like 
black  shuttles  leaving  grey  trails  of  smoke  amid  the 
wheat,  the  cattle,  the  corn,  the  cotton,  the  sordid, 
hideous  factory-shafts,  the  fleet  masses  of  plunging 
and  galloping  stallions.  Their  force  is  never  spent 
or  tired,  for  nervously  above  them,  earth  is  laced 


146  AMERICA 

and  wired  with  crackling,  chattering,  singing,  whis 
pering  electricity.  They  fly  from  city  to  city,  and 
the  sky  is  scribbled  above  them  with  childish  grey 
gigantic  scrawls  amid  which  the  sun  wabbles  and 
crawls.  And  over  all  shoot  backwards  and  for 
wards  words  that  walk  in  the  air,  and  perhaps  not 
for  long  will  the  upper  spaces  be  still  and  bare,  but 
will  soon  be  filled  with  racing  lines  of  strong  black 
bird-machines  bearing  men  on  their  backs.  Purring 
autos  squawk  and  squeal  and  spray  and  flutter,  pale 
flashes  through  the  rack.  Red  and  black  and  yellow 
the  earth  takes  on  its  coat  of  colours,  from  the 
struggle  of  a  hundred  million  hands.  It  is  a  palimp- 
set  which  no  one  reads  or  understands,  which  none 
has  time  to  heed,  a  loom-frame  woven  over  with 
interspersed  entangled  threads,  of  which  the  meaning 
is  lost,  from  which  the  pattern  is  not  yet  freed. 

Amid  all  this  men  struggle,  surge,  call  out,  fall 
choking,  toil  with  backs  bent  over  the  earth  in 
black  arcs.  Crowds  of  them  clatter,  scramble, 
bustle,  push,  and  drift  away.  They  creep,  black, 
greasy  masses  out  of  the  earth  like  ants ;  they  swing 
out  on  great  frozen  blocks  of  steel  or  marble  over 
space;  they  saunter  in  some  forgotten  place;  they 
yawn  with  the  weariness  of  little  towns.  Men, 
brown,  black,  yellow,  pallid  with  fatigue,  ruddy  with 


AMERICA  147 

gluttony,  blotched  with  disease,  swarm  and  waver 
back  and  forth,  east,  west,  south,  north.  Crackling 
twigs  of  sombre  dripping  forest  mark  their  feet. 
Red  wet  furrowed  plains  receive  their  pains.  Grey 
hungry  factory  towns  bellow  out  through  steam- 
filled  lungs  for  them  each  morning.  Prison  gates 
grate  slowly,  hospital  beds  spread  stateliness,  insane 
asylums  gibber  through  their  wTindowrs.  They 
hustle  and  shovel,  piling  heaps  of  hovels,  and  now 
and  then  as  if  in  mockery  some  coppery  tower  that 
seems  as  if  it  would  split  the  sky  with  its  majesty. 
They  are  a  great  shallow  sea,  crinkling  uneasily  as 
if  some  giant's  body  were  wallowing  beneath.  Some 
single  impulse  creeps  through  them,  pouring  its 
breath  out  of  the  chimneys,  scattering  itself  over 
the  fields,  closing  itself  in  behind  the  doors.  It 
is  one  great  vague  inchoate  organism,  scarcely  feel 
ing  its  pulse  as  yet,  rolling  in  the  belly  of  the  world, 
waiting  its  hour  of  birth.  Earth  is  heaped  about 
it;  still  it  eats  the  earth  away,  red  covering  after 
red  covering,  day  on  day.  Now  it  half  timidly 
peeps  out,  now  withdraws  itself  again.  And  still 
the  sky  pours  on  it  heat  and  rain  and  wind  and  light 
and  lightning  and  hail,  shaping  it,  making  it  less 
frail,  more  fit  to  wake  and  take  its  place  in  the 
world. 


148  AMERICA 

But  over  there,  beyond  the  seas,  where  for  years 
the  war  flags  have  been  stacked  and  furled,  comes 
the  crack  of  a  pistol  followed  by  faint  cheers.  And 
now  a  smeary  gloom  appears,  it  seems  to  swell  from 
out  the  earth;  it  emerges  in  greenish  folds  above 
the  horizon,  and  in  its  depths  are  flashes  from  far- 
off  guns.  Suddenly  from  the  heart  of  the  cloud, 
which  the  cowed  world  watches  holding  its  breath, 
come  thick  insensate  hammer  blows  that  split  the 
core  of  earth  asunder  —  the  iron  cannon  unleashed 
for  the  dance  of  death.  Deeper  and  deeper  the 
noise  unrolls  in  a  vast  salute  to  the  new  world  from 
the  old.  It  rises  higher  and  higher  covering  the  sea 
with  its  tumult  and  filling  the  sky  with  gouts  and 
spatters  of  crimson  fire.  North,  south,  east,  west, 
all  the  craters  are  emptying  out  their  vitals  upon 
earth's  breast.  But  the  immensity  of  the  troubled 
continent  stirs  not  nor  gives  to  the  world  the  life 
that  is  restlessly  heaving  beneath  it. 

The  centuries  sit  with  hands  upon  their  knees, 
wearing  on  weary  foreheads  the  stamp  of  their  des 
tinies.  The  sun  glares,  the  rain  spatters,  the  thun 
der  tramples  his  drums,  the  wind,  rushing,  hums  its 
scorn  —  but  the  being  —  the  thing  that  will  master 
all  the  ages  —  still  refuses  to  be  born.  The  great 
derricks,  black  and  frozen,  lift  their  arms  in  mid- 


AMERICA  149 

air;  the  locomotives  hoot  and  mutter  with  despair; 
the  shuttles  clatter  and  clamour  and  hammer  at  the 
woof  day  and  night.  The  black  flight  of  priceless 
instants  reels  and  rebounds  and  shivers  and  crawls 
while  without  the  uproar  of  the  cannon  calls  like 
black  seas  battering  the  earth,  grinding,  sweeping, 
flickering,  pounding,  pounding,  pounding  in  the  in- 
increasing  throes  of  birth.  But  still  the  thing  will 
not  arrive  —  still  it  refuses  at  the  very  gates  of  life. 
America !  —  America !  —  blood-stained  and  torn 
with  choked,  convulsive  sighs,  perhaps  too  late  thou 
shalt  arise,  perhaps  in  vain  shalt  seek  to  rule  the 
earth! 

Spring,  1916. 


THE  POEM  OF  MIST 

Mist  on  the  Atlantic  coast.  Wind  that  whistles, 
driving  the  blue,  steel-cut  sea  steadily  inland,  past 
dark  headlands.  Sand  and  granite,  trap-rock  and 
scrub.  Beyond  these,  mile  after  mile,  a  continent 
of  forests,  out  of  which  twelve  great  rivers,  Merri- 
mac,  Connecticut,  Hudson,  Delaware,  Susquehanna, 
Potomac,  James,  Roanoke,  Peedee,  and  Santee, 
Savannah  and  Altamaha,  rise  and  pour  their  waters 
into  the  ocean.  A  coast  unvisited  by  men,  though 
now  and  then  some  lithe,  smooth-bodied  Indian 
paddles  a  canoe  through  a  blue  backwater,  fringed 
with  reeds,  while  a  fleet  of  sea-gulls,  their  bodies 
oscillating,  wheel  and  dance  above  it.  A  coast  that 
is  then  silent  for  eternity. 

Suddenly  through  the  blue-grey  mist,  loom  three 
high-pooped  shells,  the  caravels.  Far  off  to  sea, 
beyond  sight  they  drift,  going  southward.  The 
mist  parts  to  let  them  through,  and  they  float  the 
flag  of  Spain  into  a  tropic  ocean.  Cathay  is  lost, 
but  a  continent  is  gained,  and  the  copper-bodied 
paint-stained  natives  look  sufficiently  like  the  in- 
150 


THE  POEM  OF  MIST  15 1 

habitants  of  the  East  to  justify  their  names.  The 
news  travels  to  Europe,  where  people  have  feasted 
on  tales  of  isles  of  spice  and  gold  for  generations, 
and  every  shipmaster  polishes  up  his  chart  and  writes 
Terra  Nova  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  The 
blazing  red  cross  of  Spain,  the  golden  lilies  of 
France,  the  red  lion  of  Holland,  the  red-white-and- 
blue-barred  Union  Jack  of  England  advance,  stand 
and  fly  on  American  soil  —  desolate  hemlock  for 
ests,  wild  rice  savannahs  where  the  muskrat  swims, 
dim  snow-drifted  northern  plains,  woods  where  the 
wolf  howls  all  night,  all  these  salute  them.  Thou 
sands  on  thousands  of  men  go  out  to  the  new  found 
world  to  die.  In  Massachusetts  Puritans  fight  with 
famine;  in  Virginia  Cavaliers  struggle  with  fever. 
Was  there  ever  a  new  world  not  born  through 
death,  horror,  desolation?  As  yet  the  new  world 
belongs  to  no  nation:  nor  will  it  be  free  for  itself 
until  the  dead  are  drifted  deep  and  the  red  men 
sleep  and  the  buffalo  tide  flows  away  from  the 
plains  and  the  old  world  breaks  its  agelong  chains. 
Mist  is  drifting  in  from  the  Atlantic,  curling, 
whirling,  waiting,  gyrating.  Mist  drifts  in  over 
colonial  towns  and  block-houses,  over  frontier-posts 
and  red-coat  soldiery.  Northward  and  eastward 
looms  the  blazing  fair  star  of  France,  southward 


152  THE  POEM  OF  MIST 

and  westward  the  dead  red  planet  of  Spain.  But, 
in  between,  blue,  blue,  floats  the  mist  and  it  brings 
with  it  a  breed,  a  speech,  a  tradition.  Men  sit 
reading  King  James'  Bible  in  wigwams  on  the 
barren  lands  where  caribou  stamp,  and  in  the  damp 
sweltering  heat  amid  mournful  cypress-swamps  men 
sit  at  their  ease,  smoking  and  quoting  Shakespeare. 
The  mist  fades  out  and  the  sky  is  clear,  clear  to  the 
west  where  the  sun  hangs  red,  lighting  up  plain 
after  plain  that  dips  down  from  the  Appalachians 
to  the  Mississippi  River,  rising  slowly  westward 
again  to  the  Rockies  afar.  The  star  of  France  and 
the  star  of  England  have  met  and  set,  and  out  of 
them  is  born  a  new  world. 

Guns  that  thunder  on  a  sweltering  August  day 
around  Yorktown.  For  three  months  the  British 
are  cooped  in,  thanks  to  the  French  command  of 
sea  and  land;  then  when  September  burns  out  the 
embers  of  autumn,  and  winter  is  at  hand,  they  sur 
render.  Squire  Washington,  who  has  waited  with 
patience  for  this  moment,  since  the  day,  over  five 
years  ago,  when  he  drew  his  sword  in  command  of 
his  country,  rides  homewards;  and  in  December,  a 
treaty  is  signed  at  Paris,  whereby  thirteen  petty  and 
rebellious  colonies  are  allowed  to  go  their  way  in 
peace.  Rochambeau  and  Lafayette,  to  whom  the 


THE  POEM  OF  MIST  153 

release  is  greatly  owing,  sail  for  France;  and  ten 
years  later,  the  rotten  fabric  of  aristocracy  there 
collapses,  and  the  people  dance  the  Carmagnole 
around  the  guillotine.  Slowly  the  American  scene 
changes,  the  people  pressing  steadily  westward. 
Generation  after  generation  conquer  the  hard  path 
to  the  Mississippi,  the  way  across  the  prairie,  to 
wards  the  setting  sun. 

Mist  hangs  heavily  on  the  Atlantic  and  a  great 
three-masted  ship  waits  off  the  shore,  her  topsails 
rattling  and  slapping  in  the  faint  puffs  of  breeze. 
Men  abroad  her  are  taking  soundings  and  the  skip 
per  stands  anxiously  at  the  wheel.  Slowly  from 
afar  steal  the  clouds,  crawling  above  the  mist  in 
visibly,  coming  with  cohorts  of  thunder.  Lightning 
strikes  at  the  sea  and  the  ship  staggers  with  the  first 
faint  shock  of  the  gale,  nosing  her  way  out  to  sea 
ward,  while  the  crew  swarm  aloft  and  furl  the  sail 
—  crying  we'll  roll  —  ay  —  we'll  furl  —  ay  — 
we'll  pay  Paddy  Doyle  for  his  boots.  Far  away 
at  the  roots  of  the  sea,  a  hurricane  is  rising,  sweep 
ing  with  surprising  fury  at  the  mist,  tearing  it  away, 
heeling  clippers  homeward,  driving  them  on  to 
concealed  reefs  and  shoals.  The  great  ship,  gleam 
ing  with  brass  and  paint,  under  bare  poles,  rolls 
horribly  in  the  tempest. 


154  THE  POEM  OF  MIST 

War  rises  like  a  dark  cloud,  shrouding  the  young 
exultant  country  in  its  folds.  For  three  years  Lee 
keeps  the  North  at  bay.  General  after  General  is 
defeated  —  McClellan  at  the  Peninsula,  Burnside 
at  Fredericksburg,  Hooker  at  Chancellorsville. 
Lincoln  sitting  like  a  tragic  king  in  the  White 
House,  kneels  and  prays  in  his  homely  way  that  the 
Lord  will  spare  the  North  another  disaster.  Get 
tysburg  and  Vicksburg  is  the  answer,  and  the  South, 
defeated,  reels  heavily.  But  when  the  last  battle 
is  fought  and  the  last  bullet  is  sped,  Lincoln,  too 
lies  dead.  And  the  victorious  North,  its  conquest 
done,  dreams  of  nothing  better  than  of  filling  the 
continent  with  prosperity  from  the  factories  of  the 
East  to  the  coast  of  the  setting  sun.  Prosperity 
spells  dollars  for  the  coffers  of  the  few;  cheap  im 
migrant  labour  for  the  many;  any  corrupt  govern 
ment  for  the  new  Union  either  South  or  North. 
The  word  is  gone  forth  that  in  God  and  the  dollar 
we  trust  and  any  other  regime  is  relegated  to  the 
forgotten  past,  and  its  dust. 

Mist  is  blown  by  the  wind  across  the  coast  of 
New  England  every  summer,  trailing  inland,  van 
ishing  among  sterile  farms  laid  out  among  granite 
boulders,  where  grey  decaying  colonial  farmhouses 
gaze  hopelessly  over  junipers  and  mossy  rotten 


THE  POEM  OF  MIST  155 

orchards,  and  fallen  stone  fences  half  overgrown. 
Mist  blows  and  as  it  goes  it  whispers  echoes  of  the 
past.  Old  crazy  faces  creep  to  windows  and  peer 
out  to  listen  to  it  as  it  whispers  to  them  of  ships  — 
ships  of  Portland,  of  Salem,  of  Newport,  and  New 
Bedford,  clipper-ships  and  whalers,  privateers  and 
Cape  Horn  limejuicers,  bringing  gold,  ivory,  spices 
and  fruit.  Old  hands  smooth  tremulously  faded 
silks,  old  eyes  peer  hopelessly  into  Bibles.  The  age 
of  ships  is  gone,  the  age  of  iron  begun.  Mills  whirl 
their  spindles,  railroads  carry  the  grain  of  the  West 
to  ports.  The  New  England  farms  lie  fallow  and 
deserted  and  over  their  loneliness  the  red  and  yel 
low  leaves  of  Autumn  looming  through  the  mist 
light  torches,  flashing  in  despair  to  the  black  hem 
locks  over  there,  like  a  group  of  Indians  watchful 
and  ready.  Time  flies  steadily  on,  to  the  tune  of 
the  looms,  and  millions  flow  into  New  England's 
thrifty  portals.  But  the  energy,  the  vitality,  is 
sapped  and  gone. 

Squadrons  are  moving,  grey  through  the  mists  of 
spring,  on  their  way  to  France.  Squadrons  of  troop 
ships,  guarded  by  cruisers,  going  forth  into  the  un 
known,  into  the  battle  the  Allies  cannot  gain,  into 
the  dark  ominous  future.  The  din  of  cheering 


156  THE  POEM  OF  MIST 

dies  down  to  a  whisper,  the  salutes  of  tooting  tugs 
to  a  sigh.  Has  the  new  world  joined  the  old  at 
last  ?  Will  there  be  row  on  row  of  new  low  crosses 
on  the  blood-soaked  soil  of  France  to  mark  that 
America  was  willing  to  take  her  chance  with  the  rest 
of  the  world  ?  Soon  enough  the  answer  is  heard  — 
the  thunder  of  guns  proclaiming  the  armistice. 
Germany  gives  up  the  struggle  and  all  is  over. 
All?  Ah,  but  the  mists  hover  and  curl,  advancing, 
retreating  over  the  low  eastern  coast,  silencing  every 
cry,  every  boast,  every  peal  of  victory! 

Mist  hangs  flat  and  sluggish,  unstirring,  un 
shaken.  Underneath  its  touch  the  country  will  not 
waken.  Fat  and  prosperous,  it  will  slip  easily  to 
sleep,  though  discontent  smoulders,  though  rebellion 
mutters  at  its  gates.  The  fates  have  sent  it  too  easy 
a  task,  to  spin  dreams  out  of  mist,  to  weave  ropes 
of  foam  and  sand.  It  has  forgotten  the  past  of 
Athens,  of  Persia,  of  Crete,  of  Carthage,  of  Egypt, 
of  Rome,  of  many  a  great  empire  that  laid  its  trust 
only  on  material  good.  Though  food  be  scarce  and 
drink  be  lacking,  though  labour  be  in  revolt  and 
trade  be  declining,  it  will  go  on,  finding  its  visions 
in  the  mist  that  hangs  unstirring,  though  through 
and  beyond  it  comes  the  loud  crash  of  waves  shak- 


THE  POEM  OF  MIST  157 

ing  the  granite,  beating  like  inexorable  drums  of 
fate,  sounding  with  boom  on  boom :  —  each  one  a 
sombre  minute-gun  to  mark  the  years  that  must 
elapse  before  the  moment  of  its  doom. 

June,   1920. 


LINCOLN 

I 

Like  a  gaunt,  scraggly  pine 

Which  lifts  its  head  above  the  mournful  sandhills; 
And  patiently,  through  dull  years  of  bitter  silence, 
Untended  and  uncared  for,  starts  to  grow. 

Ungainly,  labouring,  huge, 

The  wind  of  the  north  has  twisted  and  gnarled  its 

branches ; 
Yet  in  the  heat  of  mid-summer  days,  when  thunder 

clouds  ring  the  horizon, 
A  nation  of  men  shall  rest  beneath  its  shade. 

And  it  shall  protect  them  all, 

Hold  everyone  safe  there,  watching  aloof  in  silence; 
Until  at  last,  one  mad  stray  bolt  from  the  zenith 
Shall  strike  it  in  an  instant  down  to  earth. 


158 


LINCOLN  159 

II 

There  was  a  darkness  in  this  man ;  an  immense  and 

hollow  darkness, 
Of  which  we  may  not  speak,  nor  share  with  him  nor 

enter; 
A  darkness  through  which   strong  roots  stretched 

downwards  into  the  earth, 
Towards  old  things; 

Towards  the  herdman-kings  who  walked  the  earth 
and  spoke  with  God, 

Towards  the  wanderers  who  sought  for  they  knew 
not  what,  and  found  their  goal  at  last; 

Towards  the  men  who  waited,  only  waited  pa 
tiently  when  all  seemed  lost, 

Many  bitter  winters  of  defeat; 


Down  to  the  granite  of  patience, 

These   roots   swept,   knotted   fibrous   roots,   prying, 

piercing,  seeking, 
And    drew   from    the   living   rock   and   the   living 

waters  about  it, 
The  red  sap  to  carry  upwards  to  the  sun. 


160  LINCOLN 

Not  proud,  but  humble, 

Only  to  serve  and  pass  on,  to  endure  to  the  end 

through  service, 
For  the  axe  is  laid  at  the  roots  of  the  trees,  and 

all  that  bring  not  forth  good  fruit 
Shall  be  cut  down  on  the  day  to  come  and  cast  into 

the  fire. 


Ill 

There  is  a  silence  abroad  in  the  land  to-day, 
And   in   the  hearts   of   men,   a   deep   and   anxious 

silence ; 
And,  because  we  are  still  at  last,  those  bronze  lips 

slowly  open, 
Those  hollow  and  weary  eyes  take  on  a  gleam  of 

light. 

Slowly  a  patient,  firm-syllabled  voice  cuts  through 

the  endless  silence, 
Like  labouring  oxen  that  drag  a  plough   through 

the  chaos  of  rude  clay-fields; 
"  I  went  forward  as  the  light  goes  forward  in  early 

Spring, 


LINCOLN  l6l 

But  there  were  also  many  things  which  I  left  behind. 

"  Tombs  that  were  quiet; 

One,  of  a  mother,  whose  brief  light  went  out  in 

the  darkness, 
One  of  a  loved  one,  the  snow  on  whose  grave  is 

long  falling, 
One  only  of  a  child,  but  it  was  mine. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  your  graves?  Go,  question 
them  in  anguish, 

Listen  long  to  their  unstirred  lips.  From  your 
hostages  to  silence 

Learn  there  is  no  life  without  death,  no  dawn  with 
out  sun-setting, 

No  victory  but  to  him  who  has  given  all." 

The  clamour  of  cannon  dies  down,  the  furnace- 
mouth  of  the  battle  is  silent, 

The  midwinter  sun  dips  and  descends,  the  earth 
takes  on  afresh  its  bright  colours. 

But  he  whom  we  mocked  and  obeyed  not,  he  whom 
we  scorned  and  mistrusted, 

He  has  descended,  like  a  god,  to  his  rest. 

Over  the  uproar  of  cities, 


1 62  LINCOLN 

Over  the  million  intricate  threads  of  life  weaving 

and  crossing, 
In  the  midst  of  problems  we  know  not,  tangling, 

perplexing,  ensnaring, 
Rises  one  white  tomb  alone. 

Beam  over  it,  stars, 

Wrap  it  'round,  stripes  —  stripes  red  for  the  pain 

that  he  bore  for  you  — 
Enfold  it  forever,  O,  flag,  rent,  soiled,  but  repaired 

through  your  anguish; 
Long  as  you  keep  him  there  safe,  the  nations  shall 

bow  to  your  law. 

Strew  over  him  flowers: 

Blue  forget-me-nots  from  the  north  and  the  bright 
pink  arbutus 

From  the  east,  and  from  the  west  rich  orange 
blossom, 

But  from  the  heart  of  the  land  take  the  passion 
flower  ; 

Rayed,  violet,  dim, 

With  the  nails  that  pierced,  the  cross  that  he  bore 
and  the  circlet, 


LINCOLN  163 

And  beside  it  there  lay  also  one  lonely  snow-white 

magnolia, 
Bitter  for  remembrance  of  the  healing  which  has 

passed. 

April  i  gth,  1916. 


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14  DAY  USE 

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